The Past that Makes Us
by Hannelore-Grace
Summary: Jim is attacked while alone on a very special anniversary. Sebastian, unable to care for him, accidentally takes him to John's clinic.
1. Chapter 1

Jim wanders deeper into the bowels of the cemetery, the heels of his shoes sinking ever so slightly into the rain-softened grass. He's mildly irritated that the dew-clad leaves are trailing moisture up the legs of his trousers, but he presses forward, weaving his way around headstones worn with age and neglect. The lower classes seemed to be particularly lax in their respect for the dead.

He was well aware of his own hypocrisy.

He stopped his ambling walk at one of the more remote grave sites. The owner of it clearly died without much money in their pockets, because it was tucked away in one of the least desirable plots and only marked with the most simplistic of head stones. He smirked at the grave as he dropped a bundle of flowers upon it. Expensive, extravagant, mocking flowers.

It was a vengeance of sorts. One served cold, very cold, because she had been dead for six years before he visited her grave for the first time. It had now become his tradition to leave flowers on beneath the headstone each year, each bouquet more exorbitant than the last.

Jim pulled a hankerchief from his pocket and swiped the filth from the top of the stone before settling his weight upon it. The rock didn't make a particularly comfortable perch, but it was more suitable than sitting in the mud. He then began quietly telling her of the events of the past year, filling her in on everything from bank robberies to car jackings to extortion to murder to bombs to any combination of those elements therein.

He didn't want Mother to be disappointed in her little boy.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"James!"

Jim sighed and ignored the shrill scream of his mother. He already had the pending lecture mapped out in great detail within his mind; he didn't deem it necessary to actually _listen_ to her latest rant. Instead, he continued to flip carelessly through the paper he had nicked from their neighbor's house. He smirked as he reflected on how distraught they would be to find all their best china shattered on the floor. They would blame it on the cat, as they had the fallen lamps, torn curtains, and scratched up furniture.

He hated that damn cat.

"James, get your arse out here now!"

He tossed the paper aside. _Boring. _Jim pulled over his sketch pad and began idly doodling across the page. He was currently perfecting his forgery of the prime minister's signature. A useless talent of his in the grand scheme of things, but a rather calming pass time between school days and weekends.

Her lumbering, thumping, agitating footsteps were coming to _him _now. Jim realized that he couldn't avoid the inevitable and quickly tucked his pad away. No use in angering her further. She was so damn touchy.

"James. Adair. Doyle." Her eyes were lit by fury and alcohol, but he couldn't muster the energy to put up his facade of caring about her wrath. She was so little, so powerless, so completely weak. "You've done it this time, boy." She yanked him up off the bed by clasping his hair in her wiry fingers and dragging him out into the hall. He gave a grunt of pain as he was flung into a wall but otherwise remained mute. "Did you think I wouldn't know? Did you think I wouldn't find out? Answer me, boy!"

His teeth rattled as she shook him, but he didn't cry out, not even as the back of his head slapped into the drywall. The bruise that was forming would only serve to remind him of how clever he had been. It was perfect, really. Gave him tingles in his toes to think of how beautifully executed it had been. Everyone would know it had been him that committed the crime, but no one would be able to prove it. He would slink by as he always did, smirking at their incompetence and ignorance.

"You make me sick! You're disgusting!" She was now screaming directly in front of his face, causing him to scowl and wrinkle his nose at the onslaught of foul, boozy breath and spittle. "You fucking little bastard. You worthless piece of shit. You're a fuck up, a vile...worthless..._monster."_ She punctuated each word with a crack of his skull against the wall. His vision was beginning to turn hazy, and flashes of color were erupting across his eyes, but he refused to black out.

Honestly, he didn't see what the big problem was. Everyone hated Kevin and his flashy new sports car; Jim just hated him more than most. He loved that car, _idolized _it, but he couldn't have one of his own, not when his mother barely maintained a minimum wage job and spent most of the money on manicures, alcohol, and sweets. And if Jim couldn't have one, then nobody was going to have one. So he filled the gas tank up with a whole bag of sugar in the dead of night. Problem solved.

Then again, his mother probably didn't care about the damage done to the engine of that sleek vehicle. She was likely more upset about him filling the trunk and seat cushions of the car with decomposing animals; she always was so sentimental about pets. Again, he didn't see what the problem was here, either. He most of them had been dead when he found them. Most of them.

He chuckled as he thought of the rank odor that would have so completely permeated the vehicle that it would be undriveable, even if they did replace the engine. He chuckled at the thought of that beautiful car slowly crumbling to rust as it stood untouched in a driveway. At best, they would be able to sell it for a couple thousand pounds. Not likely, though. A Porsche without its luxurious leather seating is hardly a Porsche, after all.

His laughter seemed to have rather upset Mother. She was now shrieking incomprehensible words at him while switching between bashing his head in, smacking him, and throwing him about. Soon, he's tossed into their uncomfortably small loo, his head making one final encounter with the edge of their sink before the door is slammed shut and he hears the familiar screech of a chair being dragged into the hall and propped under the handle. No matter. He's long since replaced the contents of her box of make up with protein bars. He could stay in here for days, if need be. He could also escape, if he wanted, but the outside world was just as dull as the poorly kept bathroom, so he decided not to waste the effort.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

He concluded by telling her of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Sherlock was a shiny new toy to be manipulated and played with, just one more link in a long chain of people that had briefly garnered his attention, and John was the cattle prod with which Jim tormented the detective. It was such a fun game. He greatly enjoyed telling Mother about the two boys and all their playdates together. He just knew that he'd have lots more to tell her next year.

Jim pushed himself off the headstone carefully, attempting to avoid getting more filth on his suit. He had worn his best, as he always did, to show her just how "worthless" he had become. To bite his thumb at her and her name-calling, her declarations of "fuck up." It was one of the most satisfying days of the year, better than Christmas, really, but it was always tainted by a strange hollowness that stabbed at him in a rather unexpected manner. This feeling would continue for days until he started up his next game.

He glanced down at the grave a final time, smiling tenderly at the name and date etched into the stone. People had pitied him, at first. Becoming an orphan and all that. They didn't realize that seeing his mother's casket being lowered into the grave was one of the happiest moments of his life.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

At first, he hadn't meant to hurt the little blonde girl in the frilly dress. Sure, he had tagged her with a bit more force than completely necessary, and, okay, it probably was his fault that she fell down, landing hard on her wrist. But he didn't mean it.

He tried to make her stop crying. He didn't want the teacher to call his mother or father again. They both got so upset. He didn't much like being hit, especially not when they were both yelling and shaking and smacking and pinching. So he shushed her. Then he pressed his finger to her lips. When she was still wailing, he clamped his hand over her mouth. Her eyes grew wide and she tried to scream louder, but he just added a second hand to the layer of sound dampening flesh. He was glad that they were far away from the teacher's bench, so she couldn't see what was going on.

"Hush, Libby! You'll get me in trouble!"

Tears were leaking from her eyes and her face was red, and Jim was beginning to realize that he couldn't hide it indefinitely. He scowled at her, suddenly feeling very cross that she was _trying _to make his mother and father angry at him. He grabbed her oddly lumpy and swollen wrist in his hand and clutched his fingers tightly around it. She screamed louder, but his other hand was still clasped over her mouth.

"Don't tell the teacher. Don't." He squeezed harder for emphasis. "You were swinging and you fell. I didn't do anything."

Her eyes were blown wide and darting to look anywhere but into her tormentor's face. She tried to respond, but all she managed was a mumble that was stifled by Jim's hand. So she shook her head as vigorously as she could to show that she would comply. Jim gave a satisfied smile and pulled back from her, his hands dropping away and allowing her to begin sobbing in immediately leapt to her feet and began shrieking for the teacher. Shrieking that Jim had hurt her.

Lying little bitch.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim never allowed his surveillance to monitor him on this particular day of the year. He knew that his sharp refusals of Moran's services sparked all sorts of sordid rumors as to the nature of this anniversary, but he did not deem any of those rumors worthy of his attention. And if he heard anyone saying something particularly offensive towards himself, he simply had good old loyal Sebastian clean out the ranks a bit. It was a pretty solid system, and he had yet to suffer any backlash from his harsh policies.

The prevailing theory was that today was the anniversary of the day that his lover-since-childhood was brutally murdered by a police officer, thereby sparking his initial strike against the jaded London justice system, and on this day he struck out on his own to murder yet another perpetrator of evil among the LPD. He snorted at the absurdity of these things, but didn't contradict them. And if he ordered Moran to discreetly kill an officer to reinforce this belief, so what? Misleading the troops into believing what they wanted was a proven method of obtaining their loyalty.

Jim strode through the harsher streets of London, mildly disgusted by all the filth and rubbish that brushed around his feet. Eyes peered up at him from hollow sockets, questioning him, beseeching him, cursing him. He ignored them and pressed onward. He was anxious to get back to a main road so he could find a cab. He hated this part of the city, the part that beckoned him back into childhood and memories. It was so easy to forget these things while he was in his cozy, luxurious flat. So easy to pretend he was someone else with an entirely different background. Here, his nose was shoved into the brutal reality of his origins. He was forced to look truth in the eye and shake its hand once again.

His pace quickened as he noticed shadows lurking in an alleyway. They danced at the corner of his vision before he passed them by and they disappeared back into the darkness. Trying to look unconcerned, Jim strode with more purpose towards his destination. It was right around the corner, just out of reach but oh so tantalizingly close.

But not close enough.

Rough hands were upon him, seizing him by his sleeves and dragging him backwards. Jim almost toppled backwards, but he regained his balance as quickly as he could and spun around to meet his attackers. There were four, all rather brutish looking men. Jim's frustration mounted as he noticed that they were all well-armed and muscled. He tried to discreetly slip his hand into his pocket to press the alert button on his phone, the one that would bring Sebastian running with loaded guns to his exact location, but his wrist was viciously grabbed by the man on his right.

"What d'you think you're doing, little man?"

"Just getting my wallet. That is what you want, isn't it?" Jim remained perfectly calm. Fear had little meaning to him.

The thugs looked disappointed that he wasn't fighting or sniveling. Jim supposed that he could put on a show to satisfy their hunger for such, but he'd rather not waste the time drawing up tears. Once he started, it took hours to stop.

"Yeah, your wallet and that fancy suit, too." The largest of the brutes sneered, his gaping mouth revealing receding gums and yellowing teeth. Jim internally cringed at the obvious lack of hygiene, but he did not react outwardly. To do so would just encourage them. He was rather miffed about the suit, though. Buying a new one would hardly dent his funds, but it was terribly inconvenient getting them tailored just the way he liked them.

"Can't I just write you a check for the value of the suit? I'll even throw in a couple extra thousand pounds for your troubles." Cool as a cucumber. Stalling.

"No." Leering down at Jim, the largest one stepped closer. "I think I'd prefer to strip this one off you." His meaty hands lunged for Jim, grasping at his lapels. In a flash, Jim had a knife drawn from his pocket and jammed into the man's shoulder. He stumbled back, pain marring his already ugly features. Jim's victory, however, was short lived as the three others rushed forward and began their assault.

Images and sensations darted in and out of Jim's awareness as he struggled. He knew it was a losing battle, knew that he was essentially helpless, but the thrill of his fist contacting flesh and his knife tearing red seams through clothing was enough to warrant his continued battle. Sure, he could've dropped to the ground and taken whatever they threw at him, but where's the fun in that? Eventually, he was flung to the filthy ground, his head cracking soundly as it snapped into contact with the pavement. His vision danced and wavered erratically, and he realized that he was losing consciousness. He tried to force himself to focus, but he couldn't see or feel beyond the raging pain in his skull.

Then the pain was elsewhere. It was searing hot and ripping at his insides. It was Poe's pendulum and Bond's laser. It was being cut in half and pasted roughly back together.

And for once he felt fear.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"We believe that it's a combination of ADHD and bipolar disorder, but it's hard to tell at such a young age, Mrs. Doyle."

He was calmly coloring in a repetitive, jerky motion at a low, multi-colored table meant just for him. He felt special sitting here. No one else in the room got to sit at the little table with toys and books and paper and paste.

"Is there anything we can do? To help him grow out of it?"

"If it is bipolar disorder, he won't grow out of it. You can teach him to cope better, but he will always have it. Treatments are getting better these days, though. I'm sure that, by the time he's old enough to really be affected by it, we'll have found the right combination of medicine and therapy to help him be a normally functioning individual."

"But what about now? I-_he _needs help now."

Jim frowned and shook the paste bottle upside down. It was stuck. It was broken. He could fix it.

"You can try and give him activities that will help build his focus. Puzzle books, for example. You could also enroll him in pre-school. It's possible that interacting with more children his age will help reinforce socially acceptable behaviors."

"Isn't there a medication we can try now?"

Jim's fingers worked the scissors into the bottle. White, sticky liquid oozed out, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more. Needed it all out so he could finish his picture. He stabbed the scissors in deeper, hardly noticing as they cut into more than just plastic bottle.

"Putting any child on medication at such a young age is never a good idea. It hinders their development, and it increases the risk of complete dependency on the medicine. It's better to wait until they're older and we can make a more accurate diagnosis. I'll admit that James' behavior isn't exactly normal, but it doesn't warrant such drastic intervention."

"Mother! Lookit!" Jim proudly held his picture up while jerking at the hem of his mother's shirt. "I made it for you!"

He had expected coos of praise and affection, not the stunned silence that followed his arrival. He indignantly looked up at the two women, scowling at their lack of attention. He swiped a bloody and paste-covered hand over his face, not paying attention to the crimson trail he was leaving all over himself. He smacked that same hand onto his mother's leg and shoved the scribbled upon paper into her grasp. "Take it." He then tottered back to his special area to use his finger to paint swirls of pink and red into the mess of paste that had leaked onto the table. He wasn't sure where the red paint came from, but he liked it a lot.

His mother turned back to the doctor, her eyes weary and shoulders slouched. "You were saying?"


	2. Chapter 2

Jim came to with jarring crashes of reality, followed by receding tides of oblivion. He was more aware of the sounds of London falling around him than of sights. There were engines and tires, laughter and shouting, slamming doors and shuffling feet. All this cascaded upon him, making him cringe into himself. Slowly, he was able to make sense of the scattered fragments, able to piece them into a mostly complete mosaic of his surroundings.

He was sprawled on the ground, his ripped and bloody shirt soaking up other fluids from the pavement. His tie had been crammed into his mouth at some point, presumably to dampen the sounds of his cries. He spat it onto the ground, that simple movement alone sending his stomach into spiraling nausea. He fought back the urge to be sick before moving his hands over himself to check for other damage. His torso was clearly mottled with bruises, and his own knife had been used to slice through his shirt and flesh. He stopped when he got to his hips, unwilling to follow the trail of bruises farther down. That could be dealt with later.

He was irritated to note that his watch, wallet, shoes, cuff links, and ring had all vanished. Wasn't taking from him physically greedy enough? He attempted to smother his anger in rationality, beginning the search for his phone. No intelligent criminal would have taken such a device, because it could be tracked, so he concluded that it must have fallen out of his pocket sometime during the assault. This was assuming, of course, that his attackers were intelligent. He wouldn't have bet money on such an assumption. Luckily, however, he found his phone just a few feet away, having apparently been kicked aside in all the haste. He fumbled with the buttons for a moment before managing to compress the one that would call for Sebastian and his defense. A bit late, but still needed.

Jim allowed himself to slump to the ground and rest for a bit before attempting to put himself back together. The thugs had been kind enough to jerk his trousers back up around his hips, but they hadn't fastened them, and his shirt was ripped partially open at the neck, exposing bite marks and discolored skin. His fingers began groping at the buttons in an attempt to regain some of his fastidiously constructed appearances. After some long minutes of floundering around with them, he had managed to get his trousers done up and two fasteners on his shirt closed. It would have to do.

His meager stores of energy drained, Jim fell limply to the ground once again. He could feel lethargy and hysteria stealing upon him, creeping in from the edges of his consciousness. He was a star gone nova, collapsing in on itself to leave a void, nothing but a black hole scar ripped into the fabric of the universe.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

At first, Jim was happy that is father had found the special drink that made his cheeks turn red and made him laugh a lot more. When his father was drinking it, he didn't scream at Jim or push him around. He would tell jokes that Jim didn't quite understand (he would later cringe after he looked up their meaning), and he would even share some of the drink with Jim. Jim didn't really like the burning hot feeling of it as he drank, but he would drink it anytime Father offered, just to make sure the dark, angry look didn't come back. His father would laugh as Jim choked down the dark brown liquid and say that he would make a proper man out of Jim yet.

Then the drink stopped being fun. Instead of having a glass or two, Father would drink entire bottles. It was a gradual escalation, but one still the same. Instead of telling jokes, he would scream and curse and throw things, sometimes at Mother, sometimes at Jim. He would leave the house for hours and sometimes days, only to come back looking sick and broken. One time, he disappeared for a week. Mother had called the police to see if they knew where he was, but they just said that he was missing. Obviously. Father eventually came back on his own, saying that he'd been a few towns over bar crawling. Jim couldn't remember his parents ever having a bigger fight.

A month later, his father was gone. Jim didn't know if he was out on another one of his drinking binges, or if he had just left, but this time he didn't come back. Jim didn't really mind. His mother cried a lot more, but it was better than the yelling. And people came to their house with food a lot. Jim got tons of sweets from strangers, so he was pretty happy. He didn't understand why he was supposed to be sad, but he pretended to be upset when he thought the situation called for it. A few well-placed tears often earned him a trip to the ice cream shop or a candy bar.

The only person who wasn't nicer to Jim after his father left was his mother. She didn't yell at him, but she didn't really talk to him at all, either. If he accidentally walked into a room while she was in it, she would simply shoot him a glare or watch him in a calculating sort of way that made him feel uneasy. And when he accidentally caught the rug on fire while playing with her lighter, Mother didn't yell or hit him like usual. No, this time she threw him down the stairs into the cellar and bolted the door shut. He never did figure out how long he was trapped in the dank darkness, but it was long enough that he was desperately hungry and cold before she let him out again.

It wasn't the dark that scared him, or even the scuttling sounds of mice and bugs in the corners of the room. It was being alone with himself, of having nothing to do but listen to himself think. By the time light poured into the room from the opening door above, Jim was scrambling to get back into his room and to drown himself out with absolutely anything he could find. He ended up finding one last bottle of that dark brown liquid. It would have to do.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Large arms were wrapping themselves underneath Jim's back and knees. He had the peculiar sensation of floating as he was lifted and carried towards a sleek vehicle parked near the alleyway. A Porsche, he giggled to himself. And this one didn't have sugar in the gas tank.

"Fuck, Jim, you sure do get yourself into a lot of shit when I'm not around."

He grinned broadly up at Sebastian. Seb was his favorite. Seb was a masochist, and Jim was a sadist. It's like they were made for each other. "You have no idea."

The feeling of flying ended as he was settled into the passenger's seat. He was rather miffed about this; he'd always enjoyed airplane rides and that blissful feeling of free fall before striking the water after a dive. He didn't mention it, however, as Sebastian was already starting up the car to drive him home.

His knuckles were strangely white as he wove his way through the traffic. "What happened?"

"I was mugged."

Sebastian's jaw clenched more tightly as he threw a glare in Jim's direction. "Obviously. What I mean is, why didn't you call me _before _you were mugged? And why in bloody hell did you let them have your knife?"

Jim gave a light giggle as he watched an angry flush crawl up Seb's neck. "You're cute when you're acting all protective."

"And you're concussed."

Jim gingerly touched the back of his head, feeling the lump and crusting layer of blood. "So I am." He frowned as he noticed that the swaying of the car was making his stomach rock in a much similar, albeit unpleasant, fashion. He focused on beating the sensation down once again, but to no avail. He clamped a hand over his mouth as the retching began and tugged urgently on Seb's sleeve.

The henchman glanced over, calmly at first, but then his eyes grew wide as he realized what Jim was about to do. In the _Porsche,_ for christsakes. "Fuck, Jim, can't you hold it in?"

Jim softly shook his head no as tears began to brim in his eyes. He was already beginning to choke on the bile, and it was burning his throat terribly. Issuing curses, Sebastian pulled up onto the nearest curb, traffic be damned, and threw Jim's door open before shoving him out onto the pavement. Jim stumbled and fell onto his knees, the contents of his stomach finding their way rather successfully out of his stomach. As his heaving subsided into quiet gags and then stillness, he felt Sebastian pressing a bottle of water into his hand. He took it and rinsed his mouth out thoroughly before allowing himself to be guided back into the car.

"Next time, a little bit more warning would be appreciated." Sebastian was clutching the wheel in white-knuckled displeasure once again, his teeth practically grinding together as he pulled back onto the road.

Jim couldn't think of a sufficiently scathing reply, so he simply adjusted himself into a more comfortable position in his seat and allowed exhaustion to steal over him once again. He was mostly asleep before Seb noticed and roughly shook his shoulder. "Hey! No naps. You can't sleep if you've got a concussion."

Jim gave a low whimper, suddenly feeling as if all the world were victimizing him. "But I'm sleepy..."

"Well, tough nuts. You're at least staying awake until I get you back to the flat and can get a proper look at the damage."

Jim gave a glare about as menacing as the growl of a puppy before rolling onto his side and resolutely ignoring Sebastian. He really couldn't help it, anyway. He had little to no control of his mind at the moment, and found himself sinking ever deeper into a stupor despite his best attempts at fighting it. At this point, it was just easier to give in and let his mind take him where'er it may go.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Feeling the pressure of the drug beginning to recede, Jim tentatively pushed his mind forward, gently brushing at the edges of awareness before stepping out into the daylight. The world was foggy and he could only sluggishly connect its dots to make the picture that swam before his eyes. He tried calling out to anybody that could hear, but his mouth wasn't obeying his brain's commands. Not that anyone would hear, anyway. Not that anyone would bother to help.

He rolled onto his side, attempting to make sense of the clock. According to his best estimations, he had fallen asleep (passed out?) around noon. It was now a quarter past nine in the morning. Yet another day lost in the seemingly endless string of vanishing hours. His arm flailed towards the glass of water sitting on his nightstand, the motion causing his vision to go blurry and then black out completely. He felt his fingertips colliding with the wood of the table, but he couldn't reach out any farther to grasp the cup. He was a lizard frying in the sun, already too baked to find refuge in the nearby stream.

Soft murmurs found their way into his ear. They were soothing and pleasant, but something about them made a spark of anger well up in his chest. The spark was quickly smothered, however, by the hazy fog that crept into every corner of his body and snuffed out light and life.

"You've been such a good boy, James. Such a good boy. I brought you a little treat for being so good." A cup pressed against his lips. Despite the alarm ringing in his head, screaming _No,_ Jim's tongue darted out to taste the liquid. It was thick and sweet; chocolate milk, then. His favorite.

Once he had drained the cup, she set it aside and pulled him into her arms. She began rocking him gently back and forth while stroking her fingers through his hair. He was mildly peeved that she was mussing up his already messy coif, especially since his hair had grown longer than he typically kept it. "You're such a sweetie, James. It's like having my little baby boy back again. You always were the best baby. Never cried and hardly made a peep. You were so cute back then."

Jim managed a light kick of his foot to show his displeasure. He was something-fucking-teen, for christsakes; his mother shouldn't be sitting here coddling him like a toddler. He was even more agitated that he couldn't remember exactly how old he was, and this warranted yet another kick of his foot. She didn't seem to notice, however, and continued petting him.

"I just don't know where or when you went wrong, James. I should've known you weren't right earlier, should've made that psychiatrist do something for you. Everyone's so eager to blame it on bad parenting, and I suppose, in a way, it is my fault."

She leaned down and buried a kiss in his hair. If Jim had been able to move, he would have choked her then and there. How dare she act like she cared? How could she stand to touch him and pretend that she loved him, all the while torturing him?

He continued his internal rant in an attempt to fan the flames of his anger into a fiery wrath. He knew that he could break free of her hold, if only he could fight against it long enough. He was so close, could feel the binding around his mind beginning to loosen. Could feel his heart rate accelerating in response to his anger. The world was gaining clarity, solidifying into eloquent shapes and colors. He was almost there- almost, so close, nearer yet, breaking out, breaking loose...

Roped back in.

The drug he had ingested in the milk struck him with a near physical blow; he could feel it in the way his limbs were suddenly painfully heavy, in the way his neck became too weak to hold up his head. He sagged into his mother's arms, completely lacking in strength or control. He was her puppet once again. Her little dolly to play-act house with. Her sweet little baby to coddle and hold as she had some-teen years ago.

Only the lowest of whines escaped his lips as she pressed gentle kisses onto his eyelids, soft murmurs of "Sleep now, James," brushing across his cheeks as she kissed those, too.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

The next time Jim came around, he was back in the flat and Seb was pressing a cold wash cloth up to his head. He groaned and tried batting the intrusive hand away, but only succeeded in a weak flailing that Seb ignored completely.

"Good, you're awake. I was afraid maybe you'd gone into a coma or something."

"Don't wanna be awake."

"I know." Sebastian slipped an ice pack beneath Jim's head and began undoing the buttons of his shirt. "But you've got to stay awake for a while. Okay?" The wash cloth moved from Jim's head to his abdomen, wiping away the layer of blood and filth that had accumulated there. "I'm going to go grab the med kit now; you stay here."

Jim wasn't sure how long Sebastian was gone, but it felt like an eternity. Seconds stretched into hours and minutes into weeks as he laid alone on the bed. Eventually, Seb returned with a rather large plastic case clutched between his hands. Jim frowned, suddenly feeling very agitated at Sebastian for leaving him so long.

"Where'd you go, Seb?"

"To get the medical kit. I told you that." He settled on the edge of the bed and popped the case open. He rummaged through the miscellaneous supplies while Jim looked on.

"Oh..." Feeling rather unsettled, Jim proceeded to slouch into the pillows. His headache had become a shrieking torment, and he could feel bile rising into his throat. "Seb," he croaked, tugging at the man's sleeve. A bin was immediately pressed under Jim's chin as he began retching and gagging. After a few minutes, Jim collapsed back onto his pillows, sweat rolling down his temple and limbs shaking.

"Seb, where'd you go?" His voice was barely a rough whisper.

"I'm right here, Jim."

"No. Earlier. You were gone."

Sebastian's brow furrowed in concern as he looked Jim over more closely. "I went to get the medical kit." He gently grasped Jim's chin and twisted his head to get a good look at his eyes. "Shit," he cursed under his breath. Jim's pupils were dilated strangely, one much larger than the other. "I think you're going to need to see a doctor."

"Don't wanna see a doctor. I wanna sleep..."

"No, you're going to see a doctor. I'm going to go find you some pajamas, but I'll leave your bucket right here in case you get sick again. Okay?"

Jim's half-hearted, mumbled reply didn't bring much comfort to Sebastian, so he dashed off as quickly as he could to grab the necessities. He dug a pair of drawstring pants and a tee shirt from Jim's wardrobe and snatched one of Jim's many fake IDs out of his file cabinet. He then briskly strode back into Jim's bedroom.

He froze as he found Jim tossing wildly on the bed, his arms colliding with the headboard and legs tangling in the bed sheets. He was about to roll completely off the mattress until Sebastian lunged forward and pushed him back into the middle of the bed. The seizure continued a few seconds longer, but eventually Jim collapsed against the pillows like a puppet with its strings cut. Without hesitation, Sebastian clambered up on the bed and rolled Jim onto his side, fortunately before the retching and vomiting began anew.

Jim appeared to be too dazed to even have a hope of dressing himself, so Sebastian began tugging the fresh clothes on him. Once his tee shirt was pulled over his head and arms, Sebastian stripped off Jim's trousers and was reaching for his pants when Jim gripped his wrist surprisingly tightly.

"No." His glare was made even more vicious by the disconcerting appearance of his pupils. Jim truly did look deranged at that point in time.

"Okay." Sebastian held up his hands in a sign of placation. "You can do it yourself, then."

Jim's fingers released Seb's wrist and he gave a small nod. "Go 'way."

Loathe to leave him, but also very wary of what Jim could accomplish in a fit of temper, Sebastian sidled out of the room. He made himself useful by grabbing fresh bottles of water and a bucket to take with them in the car. This time, he was going to take the Camry, just in case. He returned to the room when he heard Jim's weak call.

Jim was only half-conscious as Sebastian settled him into the passenger seat once again. His head was lolling on his shoulders and kept dropping so that his chin rested on his chest. Sebastian pressed a bottle of water up to his lips, forcing him to remain hydrated. Despite his weak protests, Jim drank a quarter of the bottle before Sebastian pulled it away.

"Where're we going?"

Sebastian stuck the key in the ignition and peeled out of the apartment lot. "The hospital."

"Oh. Okay. Just don't go to the big ones. Too many of Sherlock's friends there." Jim gave a funny little giggle that sounded downright terrifying to Sebastian. "Probably they won't much like seeing me. Probably they're still angry about the pool."

Shit. Sebastian had forgotten about that. He'd have to take Jim to one of the smaller clinics and hope that they had the proper equipment to take care of him. He turned off course to St. Bart's and made his way through the traffic to another little clinic that he knew was nearby. He glanced over at Jim and saw that he had begun violently trembling.

"Jim? Jim, are you with me? Are you okay, Jim?"

Jim was most certainly _not _okay. He felt little streams of electricity striking upon his nerves, could feel his muscles convulsing without his permission. His head was splitting open just as his body was twisting in upon itself, wringing muscle and bone and nerves into each other. He couldn't tell where one body part ended and the next began, just knew that it all _hurt._

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

He could hear snatches of conversation drifting in from the next room. He attempted to piece them together as best he could, but a lot of it didn't make sense to his drug-addled mind. He was even more confused to find that leather straps had been added to his bed, and he was being restrained for whatever reason. Curiouser and curiouser.

"What has been the problem?"

"He's just completely out of control. He does things, terrible things, but no one ever catches him at it. I _know _there's something wrong with him. I can see it. But the doctors keep saying that all he needs is more medication and therapy. I just- I didn't know where to go if they wouldn't help."

Ah. So that's it. Back to the same, boring, time-worn discussion of his sanity. Really, it was getting quite old. The argument always turned out the same. She would insist that something was wrong with him, and whatever prick of a doctor she had called would insist that he was as well as could be expected with bipolar disorder. And Jim had by now mastered the art of pretending to be like everyone else. So the doctor would do his/her screening and determine that he suffered from bipolar disorder and prescribe some new pills, which Mother would then force down his throat for weeks before switching back to the sedatives. Boring.

"I must warn you that I will not perform the procedure if I believe there is any chance that he does not need it." The voice was deep, masculine. But it wasn't as sculpted sounding as the regular doctors. And to what procedure was he referring?

"I- I don't exactly have any real evidence. Like I said, we never really catch him at it. But I just know that it's him. I can tell. Call it motherly intuition or what-have-you, but I can tell you that he's not right. Something's not right in that head of his."

"Tell me about these things that he supposedly does."

And here comes her grand speech wherein she summarizes all the terrible things he's done in the past few years. She gets them mostly right; he did have a hand in all the incidents that she lists, but she does not mention the biggest, his most successful crime yet. Of course, she doesn't know about Carl Powers, wouldn't suspect that her little boy was capable of _that. _So he'll forgive her for her oversight.

"Hm." Jim could imagine the doctor sitting back in his chair, stroking his lip in contemplation. He sounded like the lip-stroking type. "I can see why you're concerned if you're certain that he's had a part in all that."

"I know he has. I think he does it...Well I think he does it because he's bored. That's one thing I've noticed for certain. These things happen more often when school is out or when his course work isn't challenging enough. One day, he'll complain about how dull everything is, and then a few days later something is stolen or broken or burgled."

"Alright. I have one last bit of information I need before I make a decision. Could you just fill out this questionnaire for me? And be sure to answer honestly." The sound of paper being handed over. The click of a pen top.

"Of course."

Jim was extremely irritated that they were no longer talking. It was extremely difficult to discern what was going on based on the scratches of his mother's pen alone. From the sound he gathered that she was checking off boxes, but this didn't really tell him anything.

Pen clicking shut. Paper passed again. "Mm. Hm...And you're sure that you've answered honestly?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, from what you've shown me here, I believe that your son suffers from antisocial personality disorder, or, in layman's terms, psychopathy. As long as I have your word that you've been completely honest, I believe we can move forward with the procedure."

"I swear, I haven't told a single lie."

"Very good. Now, may I meet James?"

"Of course." Footsteps rising and walking through the hall. Door opening. Light streaming in. A not-very-doctorly-looking man walks into the room.

"Hello, James. My name is Doctor Lucio Cerletti. Your mother tells me that you've not been feeling well."

"I would feel a lot better if the bitch would stop drugging me."

"Now, now, James, you mother is under a lot of stress. She's just trying to do what's best for you."

"What kind of a doctor are you?" Jim was already bored of this man's presence. He clearly wasn't hired at any sort of professional institution, or else he wouldn't be wearing such a cheaply tailored suit.

"Well. Very straight-forward, aren't you?"

"There's enough bullshit in the world without me adding to it."

"Quite so. As you have obviously noticed, I'm not a typical psychiatrist. I work in a more specialized area of treatment. Since my methods are rather...controversial, I work on a freelance basis."

"So, in essence, you're a nutter that goes door-to-door selling home shock treatments."

"Your mother was right," the doctor was smiling in that patronizing fashion that all doctors seemed to smile. "You are quite sharp. How did you know about the procedure?"

"Please. It's so obvious I shouldn't have to waste my time explaining. You keep mentioning this "procedure," but your hands don't have any of the tell-tale signs of a surgeon's, nor could you hope to do any sort of actual operation at home due to the likeliness of infection. Since you're here as a consultant to my mental well being, the only available option is electroshock therapy."

"Delightful. Well, since you already know what to expect, why don't we get started, then?"

"Um...no?" Jim scowled at the doctor. If this man thought for one second that he was just going to allow him to fry his brain..."I'd very much like to keep my brain cells in the condition they're in now, thank you very much."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in the matter. Your mother has already signed the consent forms and paid me." He left the room and returned with a rather sizeable case. He began unloading the device as Jim cursed and spat at him. A strange leather strap with electrodes and wires attached was pulled out of the bag and then wrapped around Jim's head. He writhed and tried to get away from the device, but the straps on his bed prevented him from adequately moving aside. It was clicked into place with a foreboding air of finality.

"There now. You'll want to hold still, James. The treatment can be most unpleasant if the electrodes aren't placed properly. Here you are." A plastic stick was shoved into Jim's mouth, presumably to prevent him from biting through his tongue during the impending seizure. "Now, I believe we're all set. Are you ready?"

Jim gave a little grunt, whether of agreement or derision, he wasn't quite sure himself. The doctor moved out of his line of vision, but his actions were fairly evident by what happened next. The sound of a switch being flipped. A low hum. A burst of static and pain and heat and burning flesh and screaming cables and sparking outlets.

Nothing.

"...didn't quite work..."

"...damage?...Permanent...?"

"...memory loss...headaches...time will tell..."

"...make him better?"

"...unsure...variables...time..."

"Will I at least get a refund for your fuck up?"

Good old mother.


	3. Chapter 3

John tossed the file of his last patient to the side. He would put it in its proper place later, but for now he needed a break. He loved his job, he really did, but sometimes he felt like he was a glorified school nurse. Their clinic was relatively small, which allowed the flexibility of hours he needed, but it also meant that he was treating sniffles and coughs the whole day through. Quite frankly, he was bored. He missed working in the surgery. He missed the little bursts of adrenalin that accompanied making that first incision. He missed actually saving lives. But working at a surgery was out of the question if he was going to continue to associate with Sherlock. The clinic tolerated his calling off at the very last minute, and he was never scolded for taking obscenely long lunch breaks during which no meal was actually had. And if he came back from on of these "lunch breaks" with fresh cuts or bruises, no one thought much of it. A surgery wouldn't and couldn't allow this sort of freedom.

So John stayed at the clinic, handing out lollipops to children with colds. He was glad that his unofficial employment with Sherlock brought a high level of job satisfaction; otherwise, he'd be miserable from boredom.

"John, dear." One of the receptionists stepped into his office after lightly knocking on the door. She was sweet, albeit in the same way all receptionists are required to be. "We've just had a walk-in. He looks like he needs to be seen pretty soon."

"Sure, yeah. I'll just get set up in here and then I'll bring him in."

She smiled at him pleasantly and handed over the new patient's file. After prepping the exam table, he flipped through the pages of the file, frowning at what he found therein. From the information listed on the admittance form, the patient had a head wound and other minor bruises and lacerations, all injuries consistent with spousal abuse. He continued flipping through the file, noting the patient's other visits to hospitals and clinics. From there, things became more peculiar. There was a large chunk of time spanning years during which the patient's file was completely bare, not a single visit to any medical facilities, but then starting at age seventeen and continuing through childhood, the file reported multiple visits to hospitals every year. Frowning at the stark inconsistency, John flipped it closed and looked at the name on the tab: Doyle, James Adair.

Something was evidently very rotten Denmark, so before telling the receptionist to call the patient in, he peeked into the waiting room to check out this Mr. Doyle and surreptitiously gather some information. At first, he thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him, because there's no way in hell Moriarty would just waltz into his clinic. He thought that maybe it wasn't Jim, maybe it was some freakish doppelganger that just looked precisely identical to Jim. He threw this idea out the window when he heard the man start talking in that strange lilting, sing-song fashion that he had at the pool.

"Se-bas-tian," he whined, "where are we?"

The apparently long-suffering Sebastian readjusted himself to accommodate Jim's writhing and to keep an ice pack pressed to his head before responding. "We're at the clinic, Jim. I told you that already."

"Oooooh." Eyes darting wildly about the room, Jim grew silent for a moment and then began panting and wriggling about as much as the arm Sebastian had thrown around his shoulder would allow. "Can't feel my hand, Seb. It's all numb. Make it stop, Seb. I need my hand for building and stuff. Don't let it be broken, Seb."

"Sh," Sebastian pulled Jim's head against himself and coaxed him into relaxing. "It's going to be fine. You just need to see a doctor, and they'll make it better."

John cursed under his breath and retreated back into his office. He had no clue what to do. On one hand, Jim was a foul human being that belonged in a heavily guarded psych ward, but on the other, it was clear that he was very injured and in danger of dying if not treated. John could do a lot of unsavory things when the time called for it, but he didn't know if he could kill a man when he was as helpless and broken as Jim so obviously was now. He pulled out his phone and thought of calling Sherlock, or maybe even Lestrade or Mycroft, but when he imagined their reactions to having caught Moriarty, a sick twist in his stomach made him stash the phone back into his pocket. Sherlock would likely have insisted that John hold the man captive until he could come and gloat about Jim's weakness. Lestrade would have him sent to a hospital under heavy guard, and Jim would probably respond with violence and chaos. Mycroft would just have him whisked away to be quietly killed in some remote corner of London. No, John couldn't have any of that. He could be a soldier later; right now, a doctor was needed.

He notified the receptionist that he was ready for his next patient before stepping into the bathroom which was connected to his office. He waited there until he heard the familiar sounds of Jim being settled onto the exam table. The receptionist was talking, telling them that the doctor would be right with them and to just make themselves comfortable. He waited for the door to click closed before stepping out of the bathroom. Sebastian caught his eye and gasped, already jumping to his feet and reaching behind to draw a weapon. John had hoped that the henchman wouldn't recognize him, but this hope was quickly snuffed out as Sebastian leveled a gun at John's head.

"Hey," John held up his hands in a sign of submission. "There's no need for that. I'm not going to try to hurt anyone."

"Bullshit." The gun didn't move off its target as Sebastian eased protectively closer to Jim. "What the fuck are you doing here anyway?"

"I work here. I am a doctor, after all." John momentarily thought that he'd miscalculated. His heart was hammering an unsteady beat in his chest as the gun continued to remain pointed at him. "Jim needs help, Sebastian, and he needs it quickly. I'm the best doctor here to give him that."

As if on cue, Jim began stirring on the bed and giving weak little moans. He curled in on himself, whimpering as waves of nausea began rocking through him. "Seb...hurts..." John calmly handed Sebastian a bucket which he eased below Jim's chin as he became sick again.

Sebastian's mouth settled into a hard line when Jim slumped back against the bed, his face far more drawn and pale than usual. He slowly lowered the gun. "Fine. You can look after him, but I'm going to be watching you. Any sign of you trying to fuck things up, and you're a dead man."

John nodded. "Fair enough."

He stepped closer to Jim and gently turned his head from side to side, watching the man's eyes as he did so. He then followed and cataloged the trail of bruised running down Jim's neck and beneath his shirt. "Jim, can you hear me?" Jim gave a slight nod but didn't open his eyes which had fallen closed after John examined them. "I'm going to take your shirt off so I can get a better look at these cuts, okay?"

Suddenly, Sebastian was at Jim's side and shoving John away. "No, I'll do it." John held his hands up once again to show that he wouldn't interfere as Sebastian gently stripped away Jim's shirt and then the bandages that had covered the more serious of the cuts. The damage was worse than John had anticipated, which would only make his job more complicated in the future.

"Okay, I need to know what happened." He turned to Sebastian with a raised eyebrow.

"He was mugged."

"Mugged? Really?" John couldn't decide whether he wanted to laugh or punch Sebastian for thinking he was so dense. "I don't believe it."

"It's the truth." The hired muscle's eyes were glinting dangerously as he glared at John. "He went out earlier today and wouldn't let me follow him. He wouldn't even let his usual security detail follow him. I thought about tracking him anyway, but he does this every year, so I didn't really think much of it. Figured he had some personal business or something. A few hours later, his emergency signal is going off and I find him in an alleyway. Mugged."

"Oh." His eyes flicked back to Jim and continued cataloging the extent of the damage. "What happened after that?"

"Well, I knew he had a concussion, but I didn't think it was that bad. He was pretty coherent when I found him, so I thought I could just take care of it at home. Then he kept getting sick, and he started having seizures. He's had two so far. And he asks the same questions over and over again."

"Shit." John ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling like life would've been a lot easier if he'd just told them to go on their merry way and leave him the hell alone. Things were getting more complicated by the minute. "What you've just told me says one of two things: either the blow to the head caused a clot to form, or the swelling from the injury is causing the damage. Either way, he's in serious trouble. I need a CT scan to confirm which it is, but the clinic doesn't have the proper facilities. Nor does it have the equipment to treat either cause of the seizures."

"So what do you propose we do? We can't go the hospital without all your little friends swarming on us."

"Yeah, well maybe you should've thought of that before strapping bombs to people willy nilly."

Abruptly, the gun was back out and pressed right up against John's nose. "Are you going to help him, or am I going to have the pleasure of painting these walls with your brains?"

John gritted his teeth. He was_ really_ fucking tired of having this gun in his face. In a flash, he snapped his fist up into Sebastian's elbow, causing him to cry out and drop the gun. John then landed a solid kick into his stomach, knocking him flat on his arse so John could retrieve the gun and level it at Sebastian's head. "I'm trying to find a way to help him, you dim-witted prick, but it's a little hard to concentrate when some bastard keeps waving a gun in your face. Now would you shut the fuck up so I can figure this out?"

Sebastian's eyes were wide with shock and his mouth was gaping open, but he didn't make a noise as John began pacing the room. He turned around and jerked the gun from where Sebastian was sprawled on the floor to Jim's limp form on the bed. "You could make yourself useful and get him to drink some water, then put that compress back on his head." Sebastian mutely nodded and rose to do his bidding. He was quickly reevaluating his opinion of the doctor and deciding that maybe he wasn't such a push over.

"Okay. Okay, I think I got it." John pulled out his phone and punched in some numbers. Sebastian froze, suddenly afraid that he had made a serious error in judgment. This fear was compounded when John began talking. "Hello, Sherlock...Still no cases then?...That's too bad, but I have something that might interest you...No, that's not me trying to get into your pants again, not that I've ever tried in the first place...Will you shut up and listen to me for a minute? It's important...Good. Listen, an old friend of mine from the army needs some help. He got himself into a spot of trouble and came to me for some medical care. He's hurt pretty badly, though, and I need to get him a CT scan without it being on any sort of records. Think you could help?...I know that breaking into a hospital's lab equipment isn't as interesting as a serial killer, but it'll at least get rid of the boredom for a bit...Yeah...Okay...I'll be waiting at the clinic for you to pick us up."

Sebastian was clenching and unclenching his jaw in anger. He couldn't believe that he'd been fooled by this nothing of a doctor. "You said that you were going to help him."

"I am."

"How in bloody hell is handing him right over to Sherlock helping him?"

"I'm not handing him over. I'm using my resources. You and I aren't nearly clever enough to figure out how to get the equipment we need without drawing attention to ourselves, but Sherlock is. He'll take care of getting us in and getting us what we need, and he'll be none the wiser about who he's helping treat. Get it?"

Sebastian's scowl remained firmly in place. "I don't like it."

"Well too damn bad, because it's the best we've got right now." John strode over to Jim's side and began cleaning and bandaging the wounds on his abdomen once again. "These will need stitches, but it'll have to wait until later. Hand me a roll of gauze out of that drawer." Sebastian did as he was told and John began wrapping the gauze around Jim's head, making sure to get his hair firmly covered. He then went to the supply closet and retrieved an oxygen tank and mask which he affixed over Jim's mouth. As a final touch, he bundled Jim up in a blanket, obscuring the thin lines of his body. He stepped back and looked over his handiwork, smiling as he noted that Jim wasn't recognizable under all the layers of covering.

"Okay, I think he'll be pretty well hidden, but you're going to have to hide when Sherlock gets here. You can follow us to the hospital, and I'll text you where we're at, but you can't let Sherlock see you."

"No, there's no way I'm going to just leave him with you two! How dense do you think I am? You could do anything, and I wouldn't be able to stop it. No. Not happening."

"Seriously?" John stared at him in disgust. "I don't see that you have any right to having trust issues. You and he fucking strapped me to a bomb, and here I am risking my job, my friendship, and pretty much everything that's good in my life to help you bastards. So, fine. If you don't want to do it my way, then I'll just sit back and watch and laugh as your little buddy over there goes into a coma and then dies. That sounds like a fucking perfect way to spend my Thursday afternoon."

The two stood glowering at each other from across the room. John could feel the tension crackling between them, could feel themselves edging towards violence. Finally, though, Sebastian relented, dropping his gaze and allowing his fists to relax by his sides.

"Fine. We'll do it your way."

"Good. And from now on you're not going to say a damn thing about my decisions. I'm the doctor, I'm the one in charge here. From now on, you're just the nurse that's going to do whatever I say, or else risk seriously screwing this up. Got it?"

Looking as if he had a lemon firmly wedged in his mouth, Sebastian nodded sharply. If before he hadn't much liked the doctor, he now hated him. He was a soldier, was used to taking orders, but not from some pip-squeak with a penchant for hideous sweaters.

John had gone back to Jim's side and was sticking more bandages over his face to help further conceal his identity when his phone began buzzing. He glanced at the screen and stuck it back in his pocket. "Alright, Sherlock's here. We're going to St. Bart's; you can meet us there when I give you the okay. I'm going to sign off duty, and then head out with Jim."

Giving John a nod, Sebastian gently squeezed Jim's shoulder and leaned down to whisper something in his ear. The only sign of comprehension Jim gave was a tiny quirk of his lips. John wondered what twisted joke they were sharing, but then he decided that he didn't much want to know.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

John had known that fighting off Sherlock's curiosity would be nigh impossible, but he had hoped to avoid it by giving Sherlock as much information up-front as possible. Of course, most of it was lies, but he had become rather good at lying to the detective.

Sherlock gave Jim a cursory glance as John pulled him into the cab, barely looking him over before turning back around to stare out the window, acting as if he were hardly interested in John's affairs. John knew it was a charade, and that Sherlock was just biding his time until he could rip Jim's life story open and bare it to the world, but John had no intentions of allowing Sherlock to do that.

"His name is Bill, if that's what you're wondering. We served together for a bit in Afghanistan. He was my med tech. Always had a habit of getting into a bit of trouble." John subtly readjusted Jim such that his head was resting on his shoulder, and therefore out of Sherlock's sight.

Sherlock's eyes swept over the two of them once again, this time lingering for a moment on the unconscious form cradled in John's arms. "Your friend," Sherlock said the word as if were an exceptionally offensive slur, "smells of Burberry cologne and rubbish. Mugged, then. Why wouldn't he want it on file if he had been mugged? Surely he'd want to have whomever did it arrested."

"No. Let's just say that what was stolen from him would get him into more trouble with the police than he would like. Honestly, Sherlock, the less you know about the whole affair, the better."

John silently cursed himself for saying that. Of course it would just provoke Sherlock into digging up more answers, and eventually he would find that there were no answers to be found. Just pathetic, over-sympathetic John helping the most dangerous man alive to stay that way.

Sherlock's hand abruptly lunged out and grasped Jim's wrist, dragging the criminal's hand up for examination. He flipped the pale extremity over, closely peering at ever appendage before drawing it up to his face and sniffing at it. John would have been appalled if he wasn't so terrified that he was about to be discovered.

"Hm...Expensive hand cream and cologne, so he has quite a bit of money, or else he's masquerading as such. Altogether possible, but not likely if one is to judge by his cashmere pajama pants. But there's something else there, just hidden under the cologne..." He took another, deeper sniff of Jim's hand, this time looking up with a grin. "Ah ha! Marijuana, of course. Your little friend here has been quite successful in dealing drugs, hence his money. However, one of his deals went pear-shaped, and he not only lost his bounty, but he was also severely injured; head trauma, obviously. Since he couldn't go to the police due to the drugs, he had to come to you. And now here we are." Sherlock settled back with a self-satisfied expression, smiling at having conquered the puzzle that was John's friend.

John calmly exhaled, trying to pretend as if Sherlock hadn't come within centimeters of exposing him for a liar and a criminal by proxy. Thank the heavens for Jim's smoking habits. Of course, he should've known that the consulting criminal's perpetual grin was at least partially chemically induced; no one could be that absurdly happy while strapping a bomb to another man without the aid of some "herbal soothers."

"Brilliant. Very good, Sherlock. Now can you tell me what clever scheme you've come up with to get us into the hospital?"

The cheeky grin that inevitably caused all girls in the general area to flush and begin to flirt shamelessly with the detective adorned Sherlock's face. "You were right, John. This was a rather interesting challenge. Doctors are so protective of their equipment, always keeping track of who's using it and when. Really, the only option we had would be to enter him as a patient. Since you wanted anonymity, I had to create a suitably convincing alias." He whipped a file from the folds of his coat, proudly displaying cleverly faked medical records and ID. "Meet your dear friend, Jensen Ackles."

John frowned as he thumbed through the folder. Everything looked in order, but something wasn't quite right. "Sherlock, how did you come up with the name?"

"Oh, that was easy," Sherlock flippantly tossed his wrist in his version of a shrug. "I just logged onto the internet for a bit and used Google's search suggestions to pick one. After I had typed the letters J, E, N, and S, that was the name that popped up. It sounded nice, so I used it."

"Sherlock...Did you name my friend after an actor from an American television show?"

"Of course not. I named him from Google's search suggestions. If it happens to be an actor from an American television show, then you should blame Google, not me."

"Okay," John sighed, "We've got the means to get him into the hospital, now what about getting the equipment I need?"

"See, now this is where it gets a bit more exciting. You're going to pretend to be a doctor!"

"Sherlock, I _am _a doctor."

"I know, but you're going to pretend to be one that works at St. Bart's. See? I've even brought you a uniform and the proper IDs."

John looked those over with admiration. "Really, Sherlock, your ability to make forgeries is quite astounding. I'd hate to think how much money you'd get for making these sorts of things for high schoolers."

"It was nothing, really. I simply used the ID I stole off Molly as a template to make yours. No one's going to look too closely at it, anyway. The _really _hard part was getting you usage of the CT scanner. They're very controlling of who gets to use it when, so I had to hack into their computer system and and plug your little friend into the schedule with you as the attending physician. That was quite the puzzle, far more difficult than cracking the password on your computer. And then erasing the evidence that the schedule had been tampered with by outside sources was even more stimulating. Honestly, John, if this is the sort of thing that Moriarty does on a daily basis, I can see the appeal. Everything's so much more complex when you're the one causing the trouble."

"Okay, Sherlock. Remind me to never, ever ask you for a favor again. I'd rather not be the cause of you turning to a life of crime."

"Please, John. I would never do that, if only because it would be like letting Moriarty win."

"Of course. What was I thinking?" John rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window. He fully trusted Sherlock's abilities, and he had no doubts that everything would go without a hitch, but he couldn't help but feel nervous. He hadn't done something so illegal in ages; even killing the cabbie hadn't been _that _bad of a crime, especially considering that Sherlock had been in danger at the time. Somehow, thinking that he was saving the life of a criminal didn't ease John's nerves.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim could feel a gentle rocking causing him to loll onto a firm but comforting presence. He was dimly aware of conversation going on around himself, but he couldn't grasp it; it danced out of reach of his comprehension, and he allowed it to slip through his fragile clutch of awareness.

He was time traveling now, dropping into old ages and dimensions, feeling the uneasy crush of youth weighing him down, dragging him into old wounds and tearing open scars. He was being suffocated by it; he could feel himself falling into the darkness which had brushed against his legs before, but never with such utter certainty that it would grab him and pull him into its murky depths.

_"Don't you think you're a little out of your depths, babe?"_

_"Never." He smiled through bloodied teeth and torn lips. _

_"I think you'd best get home. Someone' s going to be looking for you."_

_"That's the beauty of it," he laughed. "No one's there; no one's going to care. They never did anyway, but now the house is empty. It's just me and my own."_

_"Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I didn't realize. But drinking's not going to make it any better. You should go home and try to get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning."_

_"No, you don't understand. I'm not sad. This is perfect, so fucking perfect. It's just what I wanted."_

_"You're crying."_

_He wiped at his cheeks, his fingers coming back smeared with salt water and blood. "So I am," he smirked. "Had to pretend at the funeral, you know. I'm an awfully good actor, but it's hard to stop when I've started. You know how it goes. You get stuck in character. Pretending to be the loving son, pretending to be upset when you were the one that put the virus in her tea. Biological warfare, you know, is the wave of the future. But always pretending, it gets fucking exhausting. And holding her hand in that hospital, god, what a bore! I thought about stopping it sooner. Thought about cutting off her IV when no one was looking. She would've died three days earlier if I had. But watching it towards the end was kind of fun, you know? Like watching the last embers of a fire burn into nothing. God, I'm such a fucking poet, aren't I?"_

_She was staring at him now, shocked and horrified. He rolled his eyes as she began to reach behind herself for the phone. Predictable. Dull. Inconvenient, but not unfixable._

_"Oh dear, I've said too much, haven't I?" He drew a gun from beneath his jacket, pointing it at her quivering hand. "Touch the phone, and you'll lose that hand. Now if you don't mind," he jumped over the counter and tore the cord from the wall. "I'll be off." _

_He oh so calmly emptied the register of its contents and snagged a bottle of whiskey from the shelf before turning back to the girl. She had been pretty before, but now she was beautiful; her cheeks flushed in fear, her eyes stretched wide as he pressed himself against her. "You've been wonderful, you really have. I'd like to thank you for all that you've done for me tonight." He gently tipped her chin upwards, claiming her lips in a fierce and lusty kiss. It was all an act, of course; everything was a game of charades to him, but it felt nice to be so damn good at it. _

_He pulled away with a pleasant smile, stroking his fingers over her neck. "I suppose this is good bye, then. I hope you'll wait twenty minutes before calling the cops; I'd hate to have to come back and take that pretty hand of yours later."_

The rocking stopped and strong hands dragged him away from the past, pulling him back into the here and now of pain and confusion and blurred vision and oozing wounds.

"Don't worry, Jim," a voice whispered in his ear. "We'll have you fixed up soon."

He certainly hoped so. He didn't know how many ghosts his past could dredge up before insanity finally took hold. Maybe letting go would be a relief, maybe he was fighting for nothing, but he didn't much want to find out for sure. He knew there was no swimming back to the surface once one dove into the deep end.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author: I'm raising the rating to M for this chapter, because Jim just can't catch a break. Warnings for language and non-con. Also, I've mucked around with Jim and Carl's respective ages for this bit. Terribly sorry. I felt yucky leaving it any other way.**

Jim had always been good at swimming. Always. Jim loved swimming long before he loved anything else. He loved how he could sink until the world was condensed into writhing blurs of color and thick echoes of sounds. Loved how he could shut himself away in a liquid cage, trapping himself outside of the rest of the world. He loved how he could slowly drown himself, only coming up for air when his cells were threatening to burst, pulsing with desperate energy beneath his skin.

_"We need to get him back on the oxygen. His breathing's too shallow."_

There was a creek not far from his house, too shallow to swim in, but deep enough that he could submerge his head into the stream and peer at the life teeming beneath the surface. Eyes wide open, he would sift through mud and rocks to expose the fragile invertebrates burrowed in the silt. They would wriggle away from his prying fingers, but he would eventually capture them in his curious hands to be mentally cataloged and questioned. Contrary to the other kids' accusations, he never killed them. He would set them on rocks and gently prod at them with twigs to watch how they moved, how they bent and twisted and slithered away from the stimulus. Then he would carefully place them back into the stream, allowing them to bury themselves away from sight in the muck.

Over the years, he learned to do the same. Grade school was the first time he realized that he wasn't like the other children, and that his peers didn't much appreciate him for it. He came to school having learned to read years ahead of the others, and his hand was well-practiced in the art of coloring. At first, the teachers praised his accomplishments; after all, not many children could finger paint with such skill and finesse. But slowly the reprimands began to outnumber the accolades.

"Jim, you mustn't hit others."

"Jim, you mustn't lie to your teachers."

"You can't take things that aren't yours, Jim."

"You need to learn to play with the other kids, Jim."

_"You need to open your eyes, Jim. Can you do that for me? Jim..."_

So he buried himself. He hid away from their prying eyes by dissolving into the background. It was easier this way. He could watch quietly from the back of the classroom, slowly learning how he was supposed to act from his observations of the other kids. He learned that he wasn't supposed to know about Shakespeare or geometry. He was supposed to know simple maths and Dr. Seuss. He found that he wasn't supposed to be able to build scale models of sail boats; he was supposed to be building chunky cars whose wheels could barely turn. He watched with barely concealed disdain as the other children played with one another, choosing instead to sit with a dictionary propped in his lap, slowly memorizing each page.

He didn't dumb himself down; to do so would have been worse than living with their questions and scorn. He simply melted into the background, never raising his hand when the teacher asked questions, and always keeping to the corners during recess periods. He faded from sight, content to pass unnoticed for the time being. He slowly adopted their mannerisms and affectations, memorizing the appropriate response to every social situation in which he may be required to engage.

"My puppy was hit by a car today."

"I'm sorry; I'm sure he's in puppy heaven now." (Bullshit. The mutt was decomposing in the earth; just another link in the food chain.)

"My music teacher says I could be a soloist in a symphony one day."

"I'm sure you could. You're really good at playing the piano." (You're bloody awful. You can't even play in time. Your notes are hard and your form is sloppy.)

_"You're going to be fine, Jim. We're looking after you now. Everything's going to be okay."_

_"Thank you. I'm already feeling better." (If I could control my mouth, I'd be screaming. I'm dying and you can't stop it. Just another link in the food chain. Fuck, I hope there's not an afterlife.)_

So he passed through the years, living through an oppressive boredom only alleviated by the little indulgences he allowed himself. He quietly entertained himself, hiding the evidence as well as he hid himself. Only Mother suspected. At first, at least. They grew suspicious over time. He was a little too well-crafted, a little too robotic in his responses to truly hide his genius. But they could never pin anything on him. Not unless he wanted credit. There were times when he left his signature, times when the game was too well-played not to take credit for it. But these instances were few and far in between, and most of the time he went unpunished.

Well, unpunished by people other than Mother. She had also perfected the art of hiding. Of striking him only in places where no one could see. Of leaving only shallow marks that would fade with time. Of cutting deeper into his psyche than in his flesh. Her genius was in knowing that Jim would never admit to how broken she left him. She was never caught because Jim was never willing to concede defeat.

_"He's strong; he'll make it if we can just get him through tonight."_

So he stayed away from home as often as he could. At first he could only find weak excuses to stay out of the house, but as he grew older he found that it was quite simple to fill his schedule so full that he was only home to sleep, if even that. Sometimes he would just break into someone's car and huddle in the backseat, sleeping until the pre-dawn light forced him awake. She didn't seem to care. It simply allowed her an evening of not having to see her teenage fuck up of a son.

It was through this passion for hiding that he found his passion for swimming. He originally just tried out for the team in an effort to find an activity that would keep him out of the house during the summer months. He hadn't expected to be good at it. He hadn't expected to enjoy the long hours spent at the pool, always training for the next swim meet. It was such a random happenstance that he couldn't believe his luck. Good things never just _happened _for Jim; he had to force them to happen, had to find what he wanted and take it for his own. Because of this, he didn't much trust this tenuous bit of joy in his life; he fully expect to pay in spades for every minute of pleasure.

He was, as always, correct.

He met Carl Powers and Anthony White at try outs. Anthony was a seasoned swimmer, whereas Carl was just trying out like Jim. Like in every other activity Jim participated in, he never planned to excel. He just needed to be good enough to hide in the background for the hours during which he didn't want to be at home. Anthony, however, immediately zeroed in on Jim for whatever reason. Maybe it was the fact that, while swimming across the pool over and over again, Jim rarely breached the surface for air, his lungs having long since learned to make full use of their capacity through his creek-scavenging experiences. Maybe it was the way his body was clearly built for swimming, so slim and streamlined as to be almost reptilian. No matter what the reason, Anthony honed his attentions on Jim, forcing him to repeat exercises over and over again, each time shaving some additional seconds off his records.

Carl, meanwhile, was just the opposite of Jim. He was a good swimmer, very good in fact, but it was largely due to his muscles being able to haul his body through the water faster than most under-developed teens. He struck the water with little grace, merely dragging himself across the pool as quickly as he was capable. He, unlike Jim, had been deeply involved in many other sports, and was therefore extremely competitive. For this reason, he took an instant disliking to his main competition, Jim.

Jim was quite willing to tolerate Carl's barbs and pointed laughter in exchange for swimming. He thought that, if this was his due for happiness, he was more than content to pay the price. Anthony, however, took exception to Carl's jeers. Having taken Jim so thoroughly under his wing, he viewed Carl's insults as personal offenses to himself. Jim tried to convince him otherwise, to tell Anthony that it didn't bother him, but Anthony wouldn't listen.

"Don't be stupid, Jim. Of course it bothers you. It would make anyone upset, and you're no different. You're just too dense to admit it."

"No, really, Anthony. It's fine. I'm used to it. I've heard it all before, and there's no point in getting upset about it. He's not the first to say those things, and I doubt he'll be the last."

Anthony stared at him, his jaw set tight. "You shouldn't have to put up with this bullshit. You're better than him; hell, you're better than almost everyone at everything."

"Almost?" Jim scoffed and raised an eyebrow. "Now you're the one being insulting."

"Shut up. You know what I mean. Don't worry, Jim, I'll take care of it."

"No. No you won't! I can take care of myself. I don't need you hovering around like an older brother."

"Is that how you think of me?" Anthony stared down at Jim, his eyes betraying some deeper emotion than Jim hadn't seen directed at himself before. "Like an older brother?"

Looking back, Jim should've known then and there. It should've raised bells and alarms in his head. But it didn't. Not at that moment, at least. "No, not at all. But you're kind of acting like one right now. Seriously, don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

So during the next swim practice, Carl was abnormally silent. He merely shoved past Jim in the locker room, nearly slamming him into the door frame as they entered the pool. This went on for weeks, these subtle little jabs, but Jim didn't honestly mind. Really, it just made lying about the bruises his mother left all the more easy. Now he could place all the blame on Carl and his infatuation with pushing Jim into large, non-moving objects. Everything worked out for the better for them all, really.

And so another year passed. Jim was spending more time with Anthony, preferring to sleep at his house rather than in the backseats of cars now. They were practically inseparable outside of school. Yes, Anthony was a couple of years older, but it didn't seem to matter to either one of them. It helped that Jim was more intelligent than even the most senior of students, and was therefore placed in many of the advanced courses with his older peers. More often than not, he could lie and say that he was eighteen and never be caught. He doubted that anyone would care that he was only sixteen, but it was a point of pride that he could get away with it.

The swim team finally rejoined after their seasonal hiatus, and Jim couldn't have been more happy. Yes, he and Anthony had kept themselves preoccupied by training at the pool or occasionally a lake, but it wasn't the same as having practices and meets. The competitive edge was lost, and the adrenaline and sense of accomplishment along with it. Jim was now one of the top swimmers on their team, good enough to be considered a threat, but not so good that he warranted undue attention. This was often a point of contention between Jim and Anthony; Anthony had seen how well Jim swam when he didn't hold back, when he wasn't determined to remain under the radar, and he was angry that Jim held back during competitions. He said that he was letting the team down, that Jim was being selfish. Jim just wanted to keep his anonymity. As long as he placed high enough to receive a trophy or medal, he was happy.

"Jesus, Jim, I don't understand you! You're a freaking genius, but you just quietly sit in class and pretend you're not. You're one of the best actors I've seen, but you refuse to perform in the school plays. And you're like a fucking fish, but you don't even try to win at competitions. It's ridiculous, Jim. Absolutely and truly ridiculous."

"It's what I like, Anthony. I don't need or want all that attention." (He craved it, wanted it so badly it burnt, but he couldn't. Not if he wanted to keep people from looking too far under his surface.)

"A little attention won't kill you, Jim. You deserve it. You're fucking amazing, but you just let people ignore you. Let them trample all over you like you're just another study in mediocrity."

"I'm not mediocre. As long as I know it, it's enough."

"Bullshit." Anthony was just centimeters from Jim's face now, hovering so close that Jim could taste the mint on his breath. "You want the attention. You want everyone to look at you and know that you're fucking fantastic. You want everyone to know your name, to say it the kind of awe that it deserves. You're just too big of a coward to take what you want."

"I'm not a coward, and I don't want any of that."

"You're lying. I'll prove it to you eventually, you'll see." He moved away with a slight smirk, settling down next to Jim with his hand stretched over the smaller boy's thigh. They sat like that in silence for a long moment, just huddled next to one another on Anthony's bed. It was nice, and Jim slowly let himself relax into the touch, easing his head onto Anthony's shoulder as he fell into a peaceful slumber.

_"He's stable for the time being. I'm still waiting on some more test results before I make a diagnosis."_

Their team did exceptionally well that season, between Anthony and Carl winning top prizes at each meet and Jim always placing in his chosen event. So well, in fact, that they made it to the championships. Jim was both happy and nervous about this; he hadn't ever intended to compete in such a big event, but he found himself forced to swim at the meet. He could be relied upon to swim well, if not wonderfully, so their coach insisted that he be on the roster. He regretted not faking an illness for years following the swim meet.

They were doing well, exceptionally well in fact, at the beginning of the competition. Each team member performed well in their respective events, leaving the team as a whole in a strong second place with a chance of making first. These chances were heightened by Carl, whom placed first in his event. Next, however, was Anthony's turn. Jim supposed that things turned sour a long time before Anthony bombed the competition, but he refused to condemn their entire friendship and therefore placed all the blame on Anthony's poor performance at the championships. It was easier that way.

Anyway, following Anthony's abysmal performance, their team had dropped pretty far in the rankings. They weren't quite in third place, but it was close enough to make their coach nervous. Especially since only Jim had yet to compete. Good old Jim, guaranteed to place third or second, but never first. Good old Jim, with his solid but less-than-spectacular record. Before Jim's event began, Anthony pulled him aside, quietly navigating him over to a corner of the pool to talk.

"Anthony, what's wrong? I can't be long, I've got to-"

"I know, just listen for a minute, okay? Jim, I need you to take first."

"Anthony, I can't-"

"No. Just listen! I need you to do it. I know you can; I've watched you before. I just...You have to do it, for me, right?"

"For you?"

"Yes, for me! Listen, this is my last year; I'm graduating and going to uni now. This was my last shot at having the team win championships, and I mucked it up. I just...I can't graduate with everyone blaming me for us losing. I can't leave with fucking this up as my legacy, you know?"

Jim blinked up at his desperate eyes, wondering for a moment why he cared. Why it bothered him that Anthony might be hurt. It never bothered him with anyone else. "Yeah, sure. I can do that. How fast do I need to be?"

Anthony gave a little smirk, his lips twisting in a pleased smile. "Blow them out of the water, kid. Make them wonder where in the hell you came from."

"Right."

And that's exactly what Jim did. He set a new record and sent their team's ranking rocketing up to first. The cheers were deafening as he clambered out of the pool, stumbling slightly from the strain he had just put his body through. He only had eyes, however, for Anthony, whom was standing off to the side, smiling broadly and cheering with the rest of them. There was a certain air of victory about him, then. Something like pride was emanating from the way he grinned triumphantly back at Jim. Jim just smiled back and allowed himself to be swept up in the celebration. He even accepted the first place trophy for their team when the time came.

Jim waited until things had died down before returning to the showers. This was his habit, as it was easier to hide his mother's markings when there were fewer prying eyes to watch him strip and question him. He collected his street clothes and made his way into the shower area, ready to let the heat of the water pound away the ache deeply embedded in his muscles. He briefly considered that maybe he had overdone his victory, but he couldn't bring himself to be ashamed of his record. It would be years before anyone was good enough to erase his name off that placard, if anyone ever did.

"Jim."

Jim yelped and spun around, shocked at the deep voice that was suddenly behind him, sharing in his shower space. "An-Anthony. What are you doing in here?"

"I just thought I would thank you. You were bloody brilliant, you know." He leaned down and nipped at Jim's ear, tugging it between his teeth. "Amazing, in fact. I always knew you were something wonderful." He was trailing kisses up and down Jim's neck, causing Jim to shiver under the shower spray.

"Thanks, Anthony. But, um, don't you think this could wait?"

"Oh, god no. I've waited long enough." He pushed Jim against the tile of the shower, grinding his hips against Jim's body. "It's been so frustrating, dancing around this. Waiting for you to show a sign that you wanted it as badly as I did. You really did show your hand today, didn't you, Jimmy?"

"I...I don't think so. Anthony, I don't...This isn't..." He gave a little gasp as Anthony's hands began stroking up and down his sides, then sliding behind to cup Jim's arse and pull Jim more firmly against Anthony's closed his eyes as Anthony began rocking his hips, building a steady friction between the two.

"Oh, fuck, Jim. Yes..."

Jim's breath hitched as he was spun around and slammed against the cold tile. He couldn't move because of the arm pressed firmly against his shoulder blades. The other hand was reaching down, stroking and probing and...

"Anthony, no! Stop...Please don't..." He gasped as he felt the first digit sliding in, tearing him open. He began thrashing against the restraining arm, trying to throw his weight back to break free from Anthony.

_"Fuck! He's having another seizure. Seb, hold his arm still while I give him this..."_

"Come on, Jim. What's wrong with you? You've been asking for it for months now. I'm just giving you what you want."

"I don't want this...Never asked..." He cried out as another finger slid in with the first, both now pushing into him in a steady rhythm. He groaned as his knees buckled, the only thing now holding him up being Anthony's weight behind him.

"What? Sharing a bed with me every goddamn night isn't asking for it? Jim, I hate to tell you, but we've been a couple for more than a year now. No use in acting all surprised about it."

"Just wanted...Couldn't go home..." He bit his lip to repress a scream as a third finger worked its way in. He could taste blood oozing into his mouth, but at least the pain was distracting him from the violation of his body below.

_"Oh, shit, he's bit through his tongue. Here, Seb, see if you can get this in his mouth."_

"Kiss me." His head was jerked around to the side, and Anthony's tongue forced its way into his mouth. It danced over Jim's lips, lapping up the blood from the cut in his lower lip. "God, Jim, you taste so good. Want to taste more of you..."

The fingers pulled out, but they were quickly replaced by something slick and warm as Anthony knelt between Jim's legs. Jim bit into his knuckles to prevent a cry of humiliation as Anthony sucked at his hole. He was thankful for the water that quickly washed his tears away from his face. Eventually, Anthony stood back up and pressed a kiss to the back of Jim's neck and behind his ear, his tongue darting out to brush against the shell of Jim's ear.

"I think you're ready now. Just try to hold still. It'll make things easier."

Jim gasped as he felt a pressure at his entrance, followed by the sensation of being ripped open as Anthony forced himself in. He screamed as Anthony slammed into him, but Jim quickly silenced his cries out of shame. From then on, he held his breath so he wouldn't have enough oxygen to scream again.

_"His breathing's dropped again. Get the oxygen mask back on him."_

"Oh, Jim, you're so tight. So good...God, you're a virgin, aren't you? I can tell...Fuck, yes, Jim, yes..."

Jim closed his eyes, trying to black out the sensations of the present. He began thinking about a math journal he had recently picked up, thinking about string theory and derivatives and the homotopy theorem and constructive mathematics and...

And it was over. With a shout and a moan, Anthony emptied himself into Jim's body. They stood together for a moment, Anthony gasping and trailing kisses up Jim's spin while Jim quivered against the shower. He pulled out of Jim and stepped back, allowing the smaller boy to slide to the floor, just a puddle of deadened limbs and trembling insides.

_"Thank god it's over. Roll him onto his side. Gently now..."_

Jim collapsed to the side, his face pressed to the cold ground while Anthony's hands stroked over his arms. "God, Jim. You were perfect. Absolutely beautiful." A soft kiss pressed against his temple, coaxing his eyes to look up. "You're wonderful, you know that? Not just now, but always. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." Fingers running through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. "I'll just let you get cleaned up then. The first time's always the worst. It'll be better next time, I promise."

He exited the shower, leaving Jim huddled under the now freezing cold spray. His mind was a blank, a stark contrast to the screaming signals he was receiving from his body. He simply laid there for a few long minutes, allowing himself to melt into the tiles. Finally, he hauled himself up, scrubbed himself down, and wrapped his towel securely around his waist. He still felt too exposed, so he hurried out into the changing area, anxious to don as many layers as he had available. He was even considering raiding the lost and found for more clothing when he stumbled into Carl. Carl stepped back, a smirk playing at his lips as he took in the sight of a bruised and bleeding Jim standing before him.

"On the rag now, are you Jim?" he sneered as his eyes looked significantly at the puddle of blood and water that was growing beneath Jim's legs. Jim simply stared, utterly horrified as Carl continued to laugh, shoving past Jim and heading towards his own locker.

The humiliation slowly mutated. Twisting around itself and giving birth to simmering loathing. But not for Anthony, never for Anthony. For _Carl. _The laughing bastard, the arse hole who started it all. If not for Carl, Jim would never have grown so attached to Anthony and his quiet protection. If not for Carl, Jim could have hid what happened away, ignore the fact that he was damaged. It was all Carl's fault.

When he went to the doctor, Jim insisted that it had been consensual. That they just didn't know what they were doing and things got a little too rough.

When he came home, he drank his mother's entire supply of vodka.

When he went back to school, he switched all his classes so that he was in the most advanced program. He even forged signatures to get the proper papers passed through the red tape.

When he next went to the pool, he killed Carl. He never went to that pool again. Well, at least for a very long time. And he certainly didn't swim there again.

When he next saw Anthony, he ignored him. He continued to ignore him for years, until he had some sway in the criminal world. Then he started slowly tearing Anthony apart. He was mugged multiple times a year, lost every job he managed to obtain within a month of being hired, and his flat caught fire. Five times.

Jim had always been good at swimming. Always. But he was even better at making things burn.

**Author: Yep. I'm going straight to Author Hell for writing this. You see, it's like regular hell, but you either always have writer's block or never have paper when you have a great idea. Ghastly place, really. **


	5. Chapter 5

Sebastian was not the hand holding type.

And even if he was, it's not like he should be expected to coddle his boss with such meaningless gestures.

Jim wouldn't even know that Sebastian was holding his hand. Hell, Jim wouldn't even know if Sebastian were to jump up on his bed and start dancing the macarena. Which was why Sebastian was going to neither of those things. Jim wouldn't know, and wouldn't care, and would likely have pissed himself laughing at Sebastian if he had done either.

But really, if Sebastian was being honest with himself, the fact that Jim wouldn't know was what made the idea seem so enticing. Oh sure, Jim could probably figure out what Sebastian had been doing by gauging the temperature difference in his hand once he woke up, but that was _later. _Now, Jim was oblivious and vulnerable; a state which Sebastian rarely had opportunity to exploit.

Besides, Watson had said that Jim would be disoriented for a few days after he woke up from the chemically induced coma. That would be plenty of time for any residual temperature disparities to have sorted themselves out.

His eyes darted warily over the room before he quietly slipped his hand under the covers to enclose Jim's in his grasp.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sebastian calmly nestled on the rooftop, silently adjusting the sight on his rifle and the stand beneath it. He peered through his scope before making some final adjustments and settling down to wait. That was really the only drawback to his job, the mindless waiting during which you couldn't allow yourself to be distracted from your target. Many thought that it was the ability to take a life without a second thought that made a good sniper; they were wrong. It was the ability to sit for hours, sometimes longer, _knowing_ that sometime, eventually, in the near future, you were going to take a life. That was the part that drove most assassins batty.

Sebastian didn't mind it much. He just got bored. Sure, the military and other such training had worn down his restless youthful energy, but he was still a man of action by nature. Sitting on his thumbs had never been an option for Sebastian, hence his initial enlistment in the service. But even that had proven too tedious for his tastes. Too many superiors, too many orders, too many regulations. So he "went rogue" as it was so finely described by his current employer.

Sebastian grunted and wriggled himself more comfortably against the stone beneath himself. His target still hadn't arrived at the train station, but that wasn't completely unexpected. They weren't scheduled to be on location for another fifteen minutes. Although Sebastian wouldn't have been surprised if they showed up ten minutes early just to throw him. His employer had made a point of noting that the target had a habit of being a bit unpredictable.

Speaking of unpredictable, Sebastian's eyes were slowly being drawn from the platform he was supposed to be monitoring to a lone figure weaving through the street, picking its way ever so slowly towards the station. He flicked his scope over to get a better look at the man, just to make sure that he wouldn't cause problems. The man was thoroughly inebriated, so much so that when he tipped his bottle up to take another long gulp half the liquid spilled down his shabby suit front. Sebastian snorted derisively and turned his attention back on his original focal point. At worst, the drunk would cause an unpleasant scene after the shooting. At best, he would help act as a distraction while Sebastian made his escape. The police would be dense enough to accuse the first alcoholic on the scene of being the shooter.

The minutes ticked by. Sebastian's finger curled more firmly over the trigger of his rifle when the gentleman he was meant to kill walked through the station doors. He stood at the ticket booth, exchanging meaningless pleasantries with the employee within. Sebastian slowly exhaled, sharp eyes glued firmly on his target as the man dragged his luggage onto the platform. He licked his lips, tasting the adrenaline shooting through his system. He adjusted the aim of his rifle a fraction, pointing it directly at his target's chest. He crooked his finger, the familiar hum of anticipation running down his spine as the inner mechanisms of the rifle clicked into place, and the-

The drunk flung his arm around his target's shoulder, making the man stumble out of Sebastian's line of fire. Sebastian froze, gritting his teeth and readjusting his sight to compensate. He frowned as he watched the scene unfolding below. The drunk half-slumped against the mark, talking into his ear as if they were good friends. Scowling, Sebastian pulled out a mic and an ear piece, setting them up so he could hear what was going on.

Static crackled for a moment before the mic calibrated itself and picked up the conversation. "What in bloody hell is wrong with you?"

A heavy Irish accent responded, thick with drink and slightly slurred. "Well, see, it's probably none of my business, really. I do hate to get involved in affairs that are not my own, but I figured that you looked a nice enough fellow, so I thought to myself, I thought, "Ah hell, Jimmy boy, you might as well tell the bloke he's about to get his chest blown open. It's not every day you get an opportunity to be a hero." So's I did. Well, more or less. Anyway, I'm telling you now. Sort of. But now that I'm thinking about it, I probably shouldn't've bothered. People with assassins out to shoot them aren't very often very nice people. Are you a nice person? I suppose it doesn't really matter. Nobody's as nice as they like to pretend. Me, I'm a bloody saint by most standards. I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"

The target's face had paled as he pieced together what the drunk was getting at. His eyes darted furtively around the station, searching for the gunman. Sebastian simply held steady, knowing that he couldn't be sighted from where he was hiding.

"Where? Where's the gunman? How do you know all this?"

The drunk let out a shrill giggle, leaning even more heavily on the other man. "Oh, that's so _easy._ I can't believe you haven't seen him yet. He's so _obvious._ No, I don't think I'll tell you. Things will be more interesting that way. Well, for me anyway. I suppose it won't be terribly interesting for you, having a bullet in you and all that. 'Course, the bullet's not likely to stay in your body. I suppose I should stand farther away..." He stumbled to the side, his suit jacket falling half off his shoulder as he disentangled himself from the other man.

"Please, tell me where he's at. Where's the marksman at? I'll pay you. I'll pay you whatever sum you want. Just tell me where he's hiding." The man's eyes were darting nervously in every direction as he spun on the spot, frantically searching for Sebastian.

"Um...No. No, I don't think I will. I'd rather not have an assassin coming after me next. No, they seem so tedious. Always hiding in the most obvious places with their special little guns and special little microphones. Hello up there, by the way," The drunk pulled a lopsided grin and waved, not quite in Sebastian's direction, but close enough to make Sebastian's heart to stutter and freeze at the thought of being caught. "God, I miss the good old days when you assassinated people in style. A dollop of cyanide in a tea cup. A dash of arsenic on the roast. So much more simple back then. No, I don't suppose I much fancy getting targeted by Mr. Ex-Military-Marksman up there, thank you very much. I think I'd better be off now, before he gets angry with me."

"Up? Up where? Where do you see him, you bastard?" The man grabbed the drunk's lapels, practically hauling him up on his toes as he shook him, begging for answers.

"Oh dear, I've said too much, haven't I? Pity. I was having a rather good night. I suppose I should've known I couldn't enjoy a pint or two without stumbling into a murder plot. I do have the worst luck. Not as bad as yours, I guess. Oh, look, he's taking aim. How precious."

Sebastian was not, in fact, taking aim. But he supposed the drunk's lie worked to his advantage because the target dropped him and began frantically searching for the shooter once again. Sebastian didn't much want to kill the drunk. Not right at the moment, at least; he had some questions he wanted answered before disposing of the man.

The drunk shifted in his clothes, trying to put them back in their proper order. The target stared at him dully while he pulled at his tie and tugged his lapels flat once again. "Ralph Lauren," he said, brushing off his sleeve as if it were a posh designer suit.

"Are you pulling my leg? This isn't a joke, is it? For the love of god, just tell me where he is and I'll do anything. I'll buy you an entire pub if you bloody well want one! I'll buy you a fucking Westwood suit! Just tell me. Please."

"Ooooh, Westwood..." The drunk's eyes lit up for a moment, but then he shook his head. "No, I'd just steal one if I wanted it that badly. Nope, I don't think I'll tell you."

"Now listen to me you skinny little sod-"

His words were cut off as bullet tore its way through his skull. Sebastian smiled, pleased at a job well done despite the drunken man's interference. He quickly began packing up his equipment while the man below peered at the corpse then began sauntering away, strolling as if he didn't have another man's blood splattered across the front of his shirt. Sebastian kept an eye on him, tracking his movements so that he could intercept him later. He really was quite curious.

He disappeared from the scene long before the police arrived. After quietly stowing his rifle away in his pre-determined hidey hole, Sebastian set out in the direction he had seen the drunk disappear. He set out at a brisk walk, eager to catch him before he got terribly far away. He was glad to find the man not far beyond the station, balancing atop the tracks and singing to himself as he walked along. Sebastian slipped into the shadows, quietly watching the man as he tottered atop the steel girders. He was surprised that, inebriated as he was, the drunk could even walk, let alone do so while balanced on train tracks and singing.

He snorted as the little man finished his song, promptly toppling off the tracks and landing on the ground with a soft "oof." The man didn't seem too concerned, however, and merely straightened himself out, laying flat across the tracks with his head cushioned on one side as if it were a pillow. He then contentedly passed out.

Seeing his chance, Sebastian stepped from the shadows and dragged the man up, hauling him off towards his car. Up close, the man looked even more diminutive; his suit hung off his frame, barely concealing a too-prominent collarbone and sickly toned skin. He weighed hardly anything, being easily hefted into Sebastian's arms and over his shoulder. "Man" even seemed too strong a word to describe him; he looked more childish, maybe in his early twenties at best. Probably just got kicked out of uni or some other such nonsense. Just another punk kid with too much money in his pocket. Not that he looked terribly wealthy either, though.

Sebastian took the drunk back to his flat and tied him in a chair before calling his employer to notify him of a job completed. After being assured that the necessary funds would be deposited into his account by the next morning, Sebastian turned back to his guest and began rummaging through his pockets. He found a wallet loaded with credit cards, each with a different name on them. Besides those, there were also three different IDs, a new name on each one of these, too. Sebastian was growing increasingly more curious about this funny little man, and tried shaking him awake to try and get some answers. He merely got a snore in response. Frustrated, but knowing that he couldn't do much with a man this drunk, Sebastian settled onto the sofa and into a light doze.

He was jarred awake in the early dawn light by the sound of a thunk issuing from the middle of the room. His eyes fell on his guest whom was currently leaned back in his chair, causing the front legs to pick up off the ground. He balanced there for a moment before letting them crash back to the floor, hence the thunking.

"Awake, are you then?"

"Mm." The man's eyes darted around the room, peering curiously about before stopping on his captor. "I suppose you're the owner of this fine dwelling?"

"More or less."

"Funny, I don't remember propositioning any fine young ex-army men with a bondage fetish. Then again, I was rather drunk, so it's possible that it slipped my mind."

"Your accent's different today."

"Oh?" The man's eyebrows arched in curiosity. "I'm sorry. I suppose that you prefer the Irish lilt, then?" He slipped back into as easily as if it were putting on a glove.

"No, I was just pointing it out. Just another oddity to be added to the list of other oddities I've gathered."

"Well, it seems that you've rather gotten me in quite the bind here. I suppose that I'm in no position to deny you answers to whatever questions you have."

"And what are the odds of you actually answering honestly, Mr. Smith-O'Connor-Franklin-Potter-Dickson?"

The man's eyes lit up as he was addressed by all his pseudonyms, as if he were sharing in on a joke. "The last one's a bit of a laugh, isn't it? I mean, Richard Dickson. Dick Dickson. I'm surprised people are dense enough to fall for that one. You have a point, though. I suppose you can't really trust me."

"Right." Sebastian's eyes wondered over the man in the ill-fitting suit, trying to find the weak spot in his facade. "Been kicked out of uni then?"

"Just graduated, actually. Got my doctorate."

Sebastian scoffed, knowing when he was being taken for a fool. "Please, you're what? Twenty-one, tops?"

"Twenty-three, actually," the man sniffed. "Graduated early."

''Okay..." Sebastian hesitated, not quite sure where to go from there. He was even more confused than before their conversation had started.

"For an abductor, you're rather boring. I was expecting some attempts at non-consensual sexual gratification, not a homey sit-down. Then again, I guess that shooting is more your thing."

"Alright, tell me this then, how did you see me last night at the train station?"

"Oh, now you're asking the interesting questions! Well, I didn't see _you, _per se. I saw where the tip of your gun cast a shadow below, and at one point the light caught on your scope and made a dull flash. That, and an arrogant git carrying luggage that costs several thousand pounds _should _be shot. If I'd been wrong, which was high unlikely given his reaction to the threat, it still would have been amusing to watch him suffer through the paranoia."

"But you were completely hammered! How could you have seen all that?"

"Please. We've already established that I'm a genius; do you really think that alcohol is going to interfere too terribly with my perceptions? Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not an idiot."

"Yes, you are, but it's okay. Most everyone is."

"And passing out on train tracks doesn't make you an idiot?"

"Certainly not. It's just a little game I play with the trains. Thus far, I've won every time."

"Playing Russian roulette with an express doesn't sound terribly intelligent to me."

"That's because you don't have to listen to people like you- idiots, that is- speak about your dull, pedestrian lives all day long. Trust me, you would understand after a while."

Sebastian was quickly becoming more uncomfortable. He didn't fully believe all that the man was saying, but his eyes looked so dead, so utterly impenetrable that he was starting to think that maybe he'd gotten in over his head with this one. "So what's your name, then? I mean, your real name?"

"James. James Moriarty. But you can call me Jim. Most everyone does. Nice to meet you, Sebastian Moran."

"I didn't introduce myself."

"Oh for the love of god, it must be so boring to be you people. It's written right there, right on that letter from the nice young lady asking you to kill her cheating husband. Honestly, I can't believe that you're giving your real name out to these people. Rookie mistake, you know."

"You know, I was thinking about letting you live after I got my questions answered, but considering how much seem to know already, maybe it would be better if I didn't take that chance." Sebastian pulled out a pistol, leveling it at Jim's head.

The bastard just blinked up at him, his dark brown eyes betraying absolutely no emotion except, well, boredom. "Oh, sorry, is this the point where I'm supposed to become all terrified and beg you for my life? Damn. Sorry, I do hate to miss cues."

He screwed his face up, and for a moment Sebastian thought he was going to start crying. Instead, when he opened his eyes, they were somehow even more young appearing, and vulnerable. His lips puckered into a pout and he began talking in a thick Southern American accent.

"Oh, Lawd. Please, sir, I'd be ever so much obliged if you'd take mercy on my poor little soul. I wasn't meanin' no harm by what I said. I'm just a poor country boy confused in this great big city of yours."

"Stop that." Sebastian clicked the safety off the gun and pressed it close to Jim's forehead. "I've had enough of your play-acting."

"Good," Jim actually leaned into the the gun, scooting forward until it was pressed firmly against his skull. "Now we can get to the fun games. Such as, Is Mr. Ex-Military-Assassin Really Going to Kill Me? That's always one of my favorites. Although, I must admit that this is my first time playing. I'm already enjoying it immensely, mind you. Most fun I've had all year."

"You're psychotic."

"That's what the doctors told me. But I never really minded them. They're always diagnosing _someone _with _something. _And really, they're bound to get it wrong sometime. I prefer to think of it as more along the lines of a disregard for the general well-being of both my person and the public. Really, life becomes so much more interesting when you stop worrying about living."

"Fucking hell." Sebastian lowered the gun, completely unable to even begin to comprehend what the little man was getting at. It was such a bizarre conversation, Sebastian half expected to wake up and find that he'd dreamed it all up after having a bad acid trip. He plopped back down on the sofa, raking his fingers through his hair as he willed himself to think of an intelligible response to the psychopath.

"You know, I'm suddenly reminded of a certain song by that old band...What were they called? Something about puppy mills or something just as absurd. Anyway, this song, 'Opportunities,' I think it was called, seems rather applicable here."

Sebastian groaned. He didn't think the conversation could have veered any farther from what he had expected, but Jim had just successfully proven him wrong. "Are you seriously talking about the Pet Shops Boys at a time like this?"

"Any time is a good time to talk about the Pet Shop Boys, if you ask me. But I was just thinking, well, you've got the brawn, I've got the brains, what say you we make lots of money?" Jim beamed at Sebastian in disconcerting sort of way that made Sebastian sure that he should be institutionalized. Funny, that same smile also seemed to cinch things up for Sebastian rather nicely.

"What would my cut be?"

"Oh, whatever you feel like taking. I don't much care about the money. Although, I would rather like a nice suit. Either way, if you've got the inclination, I've got the crime." Jim's mouth twisted into a devious sort of smile, jarringly Cheshire-like in the way it spread across his face.

Sebastian blinked at him, a slow grin growing to match Jim's as he began to consider all the wonderful schemes this brilliant madman could come up with. No more shooting cheating husbands or crooked bankers for him; he was going big time.

"You know, I think that sounds like a pretty good idea."


	6. Chapter 6

John did not believe in karma. Not in the traditional sense, at least. He had served as a doctor long enough to know that good deeds did not always equate to a good life. He'd seen young men, boys, really, struck down within minutes of having saved another man's life. He'd seen bad people, really bad people, torturing a young lady, only to have those same men escape death by gunfire by the skin of their teeth. It wasn't luck, and karma had little to do with it; it was just life. Chaotic, broken, fucked up life.

Which was why, as John cleaned and bandaged Jim's brutalized body, he didn't feel much of anything. He had already made the decision to help the criminal, so he had tucked the question of the morality of that act away and continued to act as good a doctor as he could. No point in tearing himself up over a plan that had already been set in motion. He supposed that he should feel hatred or bitterness towards the man laying limp on the bed, considering that Jim had caused the explosion that nearly drowned John and Sherlock both in that blasted pool, but all John really felt was pity. A dull sort of sympathy for what Jim had suffered. Nobody deserved rape, not even consulting criminals.

He vaguely wondered if Sebastian knew. Of course John had suspected right away; Jim never would have fought hard enough to incur the sort of injuries he had if only defending himself against a simple mugging. Then there was the way that, even when only half-conscious, Jim curled onto his side and pulled his legs close to himself, as if defending himself against further assault. No, John was completely unsurprised to find evidence of rape as he cleaned the man up. It had been so obvious, he had almost been surprised that Sherlock hadn't announced it while they sat together in the cab.

And that brought up the one factor for which John was truly concerned. Sherlock. The detective had been entirely too helpful to have not raised John's suspicions. Sherlock had stayed at the hospital for hours, playing the "bereft relative bemoaning the plight of their sickly cousin" and quietly hacking into the hospital's computer systems to arrange for any additional tests that John required. And he did all of this without once inquiring further into the identity of their mysterious patient. John found this truly unsettling, and he half expected Sherlock and Lestrade to burst through the doors with every intention of arresting John's comatose patient.

John sighed as he finished binding the last wound and pulled Jim's gown back over his bony shoulders. John suspected from his too-prominent ribs and collar bone that Jim suffered the same affliction as Sherlock, and he refused to eat while orchestrating some brilliant scheme. John jotted a note about Jim's weight on a sticky tucked in with Jim's file. He had been doing this as he ran different tests in hopes of filling some of the seventeen-year gap in Jim's medical history. Thus far, all that he had managed to gather was a scattering of broken bones, a gunshot wound, and some strange scarring that had shown up on Jim's CT scan. At first John had assumed that it was residual damage from prior concussions, but the markings in the scan were too systematic to have been caused by a random bump to the head. They appeared on the right and left of the frontal lobe, almost directly in line with one another, and were both too severe to have been caused by anything short of taking a bumper to the skull if they had been inflicted by head trauma. At the moment, John had conjured a few theories as the the scarring's origins, but he hadn't taken the time to thoroughly look into it. He would examine the file later that night, once Jim was cared for and he was comfortably seated in his armchair at Baker Street.

"You're a lot of trouble, you know that?" John gave Jim a tight smile as he injected the day's last dose of pentobarbital into the IV line, ensuring that Jim would remain unconscious through the night. John then turned and left the room, nearly stumbling into Sebastian as he did so.

"Oh, hey, sorry. Didn't see you there. Anyway, Jim's all taken care of for the night. You're welcome to stay here with him, but I've had Sherlock arrange for nurses to check on him every little bit, so you don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"I'll be here." Sebastian's eyes were wondering over Jim's bed, stopping where the ventilator fed into his mouth. "How long do you think he'll need to stay in the coma?"

"At least three days. There was a significant amount of intracranial pressure caused by the swelling from the accident, so it's going to take a little bit before it's reduced enough to be safe."

"Right." Sebastian awkwardly rocked on his feet for a moment before clearing his throat and holding up a large brown paper bag. "I, um, got you some take out from that Chinese place down the road. I figured you'd be hungry."

"Oh, um, thanks." John slowly took the bag, thoroughly confused but equally aware of the fact that he hadn't had lunch that afternoon. "That was...nice of you."

"Well I was already out, and I accidentally ordered Jim's usual along with mine. Habit, you know. Anyway, I didn't want to waste it." Sebastian looked as if he would rather have been caught wearing nothing but a pair of lady's underpants than have been having this conversation, so John decided to have mercy on the man.

"Well, thanks. I've got to be heading out now, though. Just keep an eye on Jim, and I left my number on the side table if anything changes. Call me anytime."

"Right."

They parted ways, John walking as briskly down the hallway as he could while Sebastian ducked into Jim's room. Both let out audible sighs of relief as they broke away from tense awkwardness that had been their conversation.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, his toes curling and uncurling against the arm rest as he pressed his fingers under his chin. His eyes took on the glazed appearance that they had while he was lost in thought, staring blankly into nothing as his focus turned inwards onto the inner workings of his mind. Minutes ticked by unnoticed while he examined relevant data and discarded that which did not matter.

John Watson was lying to him

It didn't often bother Sherlock when John lied to him, as he usually did so out of courtesy to the detective. Such as when he'd gone out to shag Sarah one night, but had informed Sherlock that they had spent a lovely evening watching a romantic comedy of some sort. Oh, they had probably _started _watching the film, but they certainly had not finished it. Not if the way John was rubbing his shoulder was anything to go by. Sherlock didn't mind these little transgressions of John's because they spared him the uncomfortable discussion of John's romantic life. This, however, was different. It was important to John, but in a different way than sex was. Somehow, it mattered deeply enough that John was willing to simultaneously ask for Sherlock's help while also lying to him about the circumstances that required Sherlock's intervention.

John Watson did not trust Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, yes, he certainly trusted Sherlock's intellect, otherwise he would not have asked for his help. He trusted Sherlock's ability to solve a crime, otherwise he would not accompany Sherlock to so many murder scenes. But John did not trust Sherlock with his friend. That much was evident by how he sheltered the man from sight, tucking his head against his shoulder so Sherlock couldn't see much else than a little peak of an ear. John was fearful of how Sherlock would react to the man, and thus had defended him against any potential meddling from the detective. This troubled Sherlock a little bit; he had, after all, been working on finding some semblance of self-restraint as far as his deduction making went. Beyond his emotional reaction to this revelation, however, was how John's lack of trust played into determining who this mystery man was. Clearly, he was someone John thought needed protection. This just raised more questions, though, such as: Did the man need protecting because he was close to John? Did he need it because he was in danger? Did this mean that John was in danger because he associated himself with this man?

None of those questions could be answered without further data, however, so Sherlock moved on to the next bit of information he had collected.

John Watson's friend had another friend.

Sherlock had seen the man often through the day, always within easy range of John's patient. He kept to the shadows and blended in seamlessly with the other masses waiting for news of their loved ones. He did this so well that Sherlock didn't truly take note until he was forced to sit in the third waiting room of that day, and he spied the brunette as he slipped into an empty room nearby. From then on, Sherlock kept a watch on the man, tracking his movements as he followed John's friend through the various corridors of the hospital. Sherlock could gather little from his fleeting glances of the man, other than the fact that he was carrying a pistol that was hidden beneath his jacket, and that he, too, had previously been in the army. While this supported John's assertion that "Bill" was an old friend from his days of military service, Sherlock suspected that there was a deeper connection between John's friend and his shadow. From the man's stance, Sherlock gathered that he, too, felt defensive towards John's friend, which yet again raised the same questions as before regarding the patient.

All in all, Sherlock had decided that he didn't like any of this. He was frustrated at the lack of information, frustrated with John's refusal to reveal the actual identity of his patient. Above all else, he was frustrated that it seemed he wouldn't be able to solve the mystery without directly asking John about it. To him, this was on par with being forced to ask Lestrade who the murderer was; degrading, really. Sullenly, he twisted onto his side and stared at the back of the sofa until he heard the familiar sound of John clomping up the stairs. Finally. Sherlock was glad to smell the thick scent of greasy Chinese as John crossed the threshold.

"Decided to come home, then?"

John gave Sherlock a weary smile as he sank into his armchair and began unloading their dinner onto the coffee table. "Sorry. I know it's awfully late, but I brought dinner home."

Sherlock gave a haughty sniff as he rolled off the sofa and tugged his dress robe back into order. "Better late than never, I suppose. Your friend is doing well." A statement, not a question. John wouldn't have left the hospital otherwise.

"Yes, I think he'll be right as rain in a few weeks' time. The next few days will be a little touch-and-go, but I'm sure he'll make it through alright."

"Good." Sherlock sat across from John before promptly snatching the container for which John had been reaching. He gave John a triumphant smirk as he stuck his fork into the box. "Would you be a dear and get the soy sauce from the fridge?"

"There's soy sauce in the packets right there."

"Yes, but I like it better cold."

John gave his usual long-suffering sigh before pushing out of his chair and going to the fridge. "Can I bring you anything else, princess?"

"A glass of water would be lovely. Oh, and while you're up, could you move the fingers in the fridge to the water bath on the stove? And don't forget to turn the heat to low; I wouldn't want my experiment ruined at this vital stage."

"Right." John appeared back in the lounge a few moments later, tossing Sherlock the soy sauce and sinking back into his chair. Sherlock frowned at his decidedly non-existent glass of water as he smothered a box of rice in the sauce.

"John..."

"There weren't any clean glasses. The last one was sitting in the fridge with severed fingers in it."

"Oh." Sherlock pouted but continued tucking into his dinner. He had already taken at least three bites out of each container by the time John had returned. He frowned, noting that the order contained different entrees of different quantities than what John usually ordered. "Feeling a bit experimental, then?"

"What? Uh, no. Just thought this looked good tonight." John shifted uncomfortably before stuffing his mouth full of noodles, thereby preventing any further conversation. Lying again, then, but why was he lying about the Chinese?

"You know, Sherlock, I'm feeling a little tired. Been a long day and all that. Do you think you could clean this up so I can get off to bed?"

"Sure." Sherlock smiled as pleasantly as he could manage while watching John clamber up and disappear up the stairs to his room. Apparently he actually was tired, because he forgot to grab the miscellaneous paperwork he had brought home, leaving it sitting among the scattered Chinese containers. Sherlock's eyes fell on the manilla file folder stuck beneath sheets of other papers, considering the odds of it holding something useful. He waited for the tell-tale sounds of John sliding into bed before snatching the papers off the table and thumbing through them. The first few were just letters taken from the box that morning, but the others below were print outs of various test reports from that day. These were all printed under the heading of John's friend's pseudonym, Jensen Ackles. The file folder, however, was emblazoned with a different name: Doyle, James Adair.

Curious. Apparently Sherlock had been correct in his assumption that John had given his friend a fake name. This meant that his true identity needed protecting, too. Sherlock thumbed through the papers within, quickly scanning each one before settling down to read them more thoroughly.

The first couple of years were rather unremarkable. Young James had received the usual shots at the recommended ages and was deemed healthy despite being rather small for his age. At age three, however, the boy had apparently gained a sense of curiosity, and therefore a sense of how to get himself into mischief. He had quite a few visits to the surgery for minor broken bones, enough that one of the physicians had made a note concerning the possibility of child abuse. By age four, the boy was sent to a behavioral therapist. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and ADHD shortly thereafter. As he grew older, the injuries diminished in frequency, dwindling down to a broken arm or leg once a year or so. His visits to therapists increased, however, until he was seeing two or three at a time. He was on a constant rotation of medications, but apparently none seemed to help because the dosages were consistently heightened or abandoned for a stronger prescription. The therapists' reports that were kept in the file varied in their analysis of the boy's psychological welfare, but each noted a hesitance to talk and an animosity towards adult figures, particularly his mother.

At age sixteen, the reports became quite irregular. James was seen by a doctor concerning some injuries incurred while "engaging in homoerotic sexual relations," and despite the injuries being consistent with victims of rape, it was noted that they were acquired consensually. For months after that event, the boy was consistently in the hospital for other minor injuries, including chemical burns and lacerations that needed stitching. Suddenly, however, he stopped seeing both his physician and his current therapist for some months. It wasn't until shortly after his seventeenth birthday that James came to the doctor once again, this time suffering from electrical burns. He began seeing his therapist once again a while later, but things seemed to have changed somehow. The psychiatrist noted that James was now talking almost incessantly, giving voice to whatever thought that passed through his mind. These reports were continued until late in his seventeenth year, after which the file went completely blank.

Sherlock flopped back down onto the sofa, allowing what he had just read to pass through his processing facilities. He puzzled over the information for a bit longer, considering the vast implications of what he had read. Once he had drawn his initial conclusions, he flipped the file open once more and began reading the notes that John had left scattered throughout. There were several sticky notes listing poorly healed broken bones, another describing a gunshot wound to the arm, and still others recording evidence of drug abuse and self-mutilation. Apparently, John had been trying to fill in the gap in the medical history of his "friend." What concerned Sherlock the most, however, were the various scans and x-rays that John had taken that day. In particular, there were the CT scans on which John had noted both the swelling caused by the recent head trauma, and two spots of scarring on either side of the frontal lobe. Sherlock chewed on his lip, his curiosity regarding the entire situation only heightened by all the puzzling little clues he was being fed. In some way, it all made sense, the picture it built forming a logical conclusion that Sherlock just had yet to see. He knew the answer was close, if only he tapped the right brick and said the right words.

He groaned, silently cursing John for being so utterly enigmatic and bringing this new mystery to him. He knew that John wouldn't approve of his prying, but the need to know exactly who this man was and what was going on would drive Sherlock around the bend if he didn't figure it out. He tossed the papers aside and closed his eyes, tapping his fingers against one another as he sank into his mind once again. He saw John's scrawled notes floating through his mind's eye, saw images of bones and brains hovering within sight. For some reason, his mind kept focusing on the ribs. Ribs which had been broken at some point, probably when the man was younger, judging by how the ribs on the left had developed normally, but those on the right weren't quite evenly spaced or properly shaped. The damage would have been obvious if the man were wearing a particularly tight shirt, much less if his chest had been bared.

But Sherlock hadn't seen the man's ribs, couldn't have seen anything with the way John had him all bundled up. Come to think of it, the last time he'd seen anyone bare-chested was after he accidentally stumbled into John immediately after John had showered. Figuring that this was as good a place as any to start, Sherlock began thinking backwards, working his way through a list of everyone whose ribs he had seen before.

So, John: Other than the scar crawling across his left shoulder, John's chest was fairly typical looking. No disfigured ribcage to be seen. Besides, John couldn't very well have duplicated himself and had his clone get his brains smashed in. That would, however, explain why John was so intent on hiding his patient.

Lestrade: Admittedly, Lestrade hadn't been completely shirtless when Sherlock had seen him, so his conclusion was not completely reliable. After having forced the DI to strip down to his undershirt so Sherlock could use his button-up as a towel after following a criminal into the Thames, however, Sherlock had seen enough to be fairly certain that his ribcage was perfectly normal. Although he ought to get that mole checked out.

Mycroft: Sherlock suppressed a shudder when he thought about how he had stumbled upon his topless older brother, and simply confirmed that Mycroft's ribs were completely intact in his haste to put the terrible memory back into the recesses of his mind once again. He had never forgotten to knock before entering Mycroft's office since this incident, and Mycroft was being insufferably smug about having finally taught his little brother some manners.

The girl not named Anthea. Ditto the above.

John: post-shower once again. Perhaps he ought to invest in buying John his own dressing gown.

Molly: The awkward, fumbling experience had been enough to confirm that she did not suffer from damaged ribs. He hadn't seen anything, but he had certainly touched enough to be sure of this conclusion. He had also confirmed his status as asexual; a rather successful experiment, all in all.

Anderson: It was difficult to ascertain whether or not Anderson's bone structure had been compromised, what with all the flailing he had been doing while stripping. Honestly, Sherlock didn't understand why he'd been so upset; he'd been warned not to touch the beaker on the far left of the counter. He was just lucky that it hadn't come into contact with any bare skin. Sherlock crossed him off the list, however, because John would have no reason to try and hide his identity. Unless he thought that Sherlock would attempt experiments on him while he was hospitalized.

John: This time it was post-the pool incident. The paramedics had cut off his shirt to expose his chest while they worked to restart his heart. Sherlock had only been vaguely aware of all this while he muddled between consciousness and blissful unawareness. When he had next come around, John was alive and breathing once again. He'd made sure of it by gripping his hand for hours until he woke up and smiled at Sherlock.

Jim from IT: He had been wearing an absurdly tight v-neck shirt, the kind that teenagers wore when they were pretending to be under-appreciated musicians. This image was complimented by the dog tag necklace tucked under the fabric and the scars running up his wrist, barely concealed by a wristwatch. The shirt was so tight, in fact, that Sherlock had been able to make out the lines of his belly button (outtie), and the distinct shape of ribs underneath...

Oh.

_Oh._

Suddenly John's notes were flying before Sherlock's eyes while his mind darted over the memory of Jim's appearance. Everything matched, from the scars on his wrists to the dent in his right side showing where a kick had broken bones to the faint scar that was just barely peeping out below his shirt sleeve. It fit. It fit with such perfect ease that Sherlock was completely certain of his conclusion. He just couldn't fathom _why. _Why would John feel compelled to save Jim's life after he had nearly ended both of theirs? Why would John hide it from Sherlock? If he were so certain that Jim should be allowed to live, then he should have been able to convince Sherlock of this. Sherlock listened to John about issues of morality more than anyone else; John should know by now that Sherlock wouldn't storm Jim's hospital room and stab him in his sleep. Cut him up a bit, maybe, but certainly not stab.

With a start, Sherlock rolled off the sofa and strolled into his room, carefully dressing himself in the appropriate layers to go out. He couldn't just sit quietly through the night, not now that he knew. He had to see, to look at the man with his own eyes, before he would believe what John had tried to hide from him. He was none too discreet as he left the flat, allowing the door to slam shut behind himself as he strode into the cold night air. He almost wanted John to follow, almost wanted the confrontation out in the public, out where everyone could hear and see how John had betrayed him.

**Author: So, funny story- Originally I had thought this piece would only be about 15,000 words long. Yeah, I know, we can all see how well that went over. I'm not sure how much longer it will be, though. I guess as long as I care to write character backstory. Maybe an actual plot will develop sometime. Anyway, I hope you have enjoyed reading this. I must admit to enjoying thinking of terrible explanations for Jim's life story, sadistic as it is.**


	7. Chapter 7

Walking unencumbered through the halls of the surgery was quite possibly one of the easiest tasks conceivable for a man of Sherlock's talents. Yes, it was well past visiting hours. Yes, the only family members supposedly allowed were the ones huddled in the waiting room, anxiously wringing their hands as they stared at the clock and the walls and their feet. Sherlock, however, bypassed all the tedious questions with a simple hunch of his shoulders and a half-empty Styrofoam cup. No one questioned him, obviously assuming that he was merely one of those huddled masses stretching his legs while he waited for news.

He slipped through the corridors, winding his way towards the last known location of John's patient. He didn't know exactly which room John had left Jim, but he could deduce the general location of it based on his knowledge of John's habits and his wish for secrecy. It would be a corner room, with the door tucked away as inconspicuously as possible. It would have blinds drawn over the window in the door, hence preventing any curious doctors from peering too closely. It would be as far from the reception desk as possible.

Ah. There.

Sherlock stood outside the selected door, his ears straining to hear any suspicious noises coming from within. He heard the hum of machinery, the half-muted beep of a heart monitor, and a voice steadily rising in falling in a one-sided conversation. Sherlock frowned, momentarily wondering if perhaps he had chosen the wrong door until he heard the speaking man rise and stretch, his voice picking up in volume as he moved about the room.

"I'm going out for a bit, Jim. I'll be back soon, though. Don't get yourself into any trouble while I'm gone." The words were tight, half-joking and darkly sincere. Sherlock quickly ducked into the nearest empty room as he heard the man's footsteps approaching the door. From his position, Sherlock was able to note that it was the same muscular brunette that he had seen earlier that day. Unsurprising.

Once the man was out of sight around a corner of the hallway, Sherlock quietly entered Jim's room. As illogical as it was, Sherlock was startled by how mundane Jim's accommodations were. His mind had expected dark drapings and overly-fluffed pillows, not the usual sterile whites and taupes and creams of the room. It was somehow disconcerting to see Jim, criminal mastermind, laid weak and vulnerable in such an utterly pedestrian fashion. Sherlock shook off his initial surprise and stepped closer, feeling ever so much like a cat sniffing to see if its prey were really dead.

Jim may not have been dead, but he certainly wasn't alive. Not in the way he was supposed to be, at least. He was supposed to be sneering derisively with an impeccable suit acting as armor, not laxly laid in a hospital bed with only a thin gown hiding his petite frame. His eyes were supposed to be lit with a restless black energy, not sealed shut over a pale and drawn face. It was wrong, from the tube of the ventilator to the bruises marring his chest and arms to his bare feet tucked under the covers. Sherlock instinctively winced away from the sight, confused by the mixed emotions now rising in his mind. It wasn't sympathy, and it certainly wasn't sorrow, but it felt like a peculiar sort of sadness. The kind like when you open a gift and it's not really what you wanted, even if you asked for it.

Sherlock stepped closer to the bed, his hand reaching out to pull back the covers. His eyes automatically began cataloging data and drawing conclusions, and for once he wished he could turn it off. Turn off the way his mind reconstructed every blow, analyzed the damage, estimated how much pain Jim had experienced as a result. He scowled in an attempt to rein in his usually impenetrable self-control. He didn't understand this; he should be happy to see the man that very nearly killed John unconscious and in serious danger of death. All he could think about, however, was the brilliant mind buried underneath the masquerade, and the possibility of losing that intelligence because of some random act of violence. It was sickening to see how people like them-geniuses, intellect untouchable by the masses-could be brought down with a shattering crash by the whims of those very same dull masses.

He took Jim's chin in his hand and gently pushed his face to the side, this time searching for a specific type of marking to confirm the hypothesis he had constructed based on Jim's file. He brushed his fingers through Jim's hair, pushing it out of the way so he could get a better look at the skin hidden below. He froze, however, when the sound of a door banging closed drew his attention to the rather large man standing in the room.

"Get the fuck away from him."

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"Get the fuck away from him."

"Or you'll do what? You're outnumbered, boy. You'd do well to just turn away now and walk back to your car before we decide not to be so merciful."

Sebastian scoffed, leveling his gun at the leader's head. "Don't think so. I'm not leaving until each one of you bastards has a bullet embedded in your skull."

"Is that so?" The leader stepped next to Jim, gripping a handful of hair and jerking his head back so that Jim was staring into his eyes. "That's a good little doggy you've trained there, Jimmy. So loyal. That's hard to find these days, you know. Any one of these men would shoot me down just so they could climb a little higher in the ranks. But him, now he would rather follow along behind you and clean up these little messes you make. Very sweet."

Jim's response was muffled around the gag, so the leader jerked it out, laughing as Jim winced at the burn it left behind in his mouth. "I'm sorry. What was that you said?"

Despite being bound to a chair and sporting some fresh bruises, Jim somehow managed to appear unruffled and nonchalant as he responded, "I was just saying that sometimes a good shagging keeps them in line. You'd be surprised how closely tied libido and loyalty are." He gave Sebastian a leering, suggestive look which caused the gang leader to balk.

"That's disgusting. If that's how you run your enterprise, then it's no wonder you're going belly-up."

"More like bottoms up, but potayto, potato," Jim smirked.

"Jim..." Sebastian's warning look was lost on Jim; he was too busy assessing the situation to take note of such minor things. The binding had been a rush job, so he could escape the ropes rather easily if given enough time. He had already half loosened the ones around his wrists, but it was taking more time than he suspected he had available. The water sloshing against the wall behind him was enough to make Jim nervous.

"Tell me this, then, Jimmy: What exactly did you think infiltrating my gang would accomplish? You had to know it was foolish and wouldn't work."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Thus far, the whole thing's gone over rather swimmingly. Wouldn't you say so, Seb?"

"Jim, for christsakes, shut up."

"Now, Sebby," Jim purred, "you mustn't speak badly to me. You know it won't bode well for you in the bedroom tonight."

"What do you mean, Jimmy? I believe I have the upper hand here. _You're _the one trussed up like a Christmas gift. I don't think you have any room for gloating."

"No? Hm, that's strange, because I thought I was the one sitting safely while five of the world's best snipers have their sights trained on all the top members of a certain notorious London gang. Of course, I could be wrong on that count. Seb?"

On cue, little red dots flicked onto the chests of all the gang members gathered along the bay. They all froze, eyes staring down at their marked bodies. Sebastian smirked at the looks of fear and surprise glued to their faces.

"No, Jim. I think you got it pretty spot-on." Sebastian cocked his gun, making sure that the leader knew it was still trained on his skull.

"You see, dearie, there's nothing quite like a public execution to bring all the nobles out to play. And then, when they're all gathered like pigs lined up for slaughter, you kill them!" Jim giggled, unable to fend off his joy at a plan completed with nary a hitch.

"You utter bastard!" The leader snarled, spinning around to Jim. The sound of gunshots was lost to Jim as a fist connected with his chest, sending him toppling backwards.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock gasped as a fist connected with his chest, sending him toppling back away from Jim's bed. He sprawled on the ground, staring up at his attacker in shock. Seeing another blow coming from above, however, Sherlock rolled to his feet and began blocking and dodging the strikes. The man was shouting at him, but Sherlock couldn't fully make out what he was saying through the ringing in his ears. Instead, he had to suffice with counter acting the blows aimed at his stomach and head.

One punch actually found its mark, making Sherlock stagger backwards into the wall and lose his breath. His chest heaved, desperately searching for more oxygen to pull into his lungs, as he ducked away from yet another punch. Finally regaining his breath, Sherlock lunged forward, throwing his opponent off guard with his sudden and brutal assault. They were now more evenly matched, Sherlock's trained attacks making up for being outweighed and less muscled. He pinpointed the man's weakest points (Left arm: recent but mostly healed break; Right calf: old gun shot wound) and mercilessly exploited those all the while striking precisely over the sensitive organs in his abdomen.

Sweat was dripping down Sherlock's brow as they both toppled to the floor, now rolling and punching at each other like school boys having a fight out in the yard. The fight had even devolved into the occasional biting when one felt that the other was getting too much of an upper hand. Sherlock vaguely wondered how long before one of them ended up with a knee between their legs as he clawed at his opponent's face. This thought didn't gain too much consideration, however, as the other man suddenly smacked him into the ground with enough force to leave Sherlock stunned. While Sherlock was unmoving on the floor, the man gripped his neck and began pressing into his jugular. Sherlock was snapped out of his reverie by the sudden memory of the last time he was strangled. His mouth twisted into a surprised O while his eyes blew wide in fear. He quickly gained control of himself, though, and subtly shifted his weight beneath the man. Once he was in the proper position, Sherlock threw his knees up under the man's chest and then forcefully kicked upwards, sending the man head-over-heels and away from Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up, gasping and rubbing at his neck while he looked about the room. Something was wrong, but his haze-filled mind couldn't figure out what it was yet. Instead, he searched for his opponent, finding him sprawled and groaning among a scattering of wires and machinery. Sherlock felt his heart stutter in his chest as he finally registered the montiors screaming in the background, mournfully screeching that a life was in danger.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

It took a few moments for Jim to register that he was in danger, the cold of the water having caused his nerves to scream and black out any coherent thought with their screeching. When he finally realized what was happening, Jim began frantically writing in the chair in an attempt to further loosed the bonds that he had begun wriggling free of earlier. This task was made more difficult, however, by the numbness of his fingers and the way the ropes were beginning to swell as they absorbed more water. He could already feel the tightness in his chest that commanded him to breath, to open his mouth and suck desperately for oxygen.

He was still sinking, the weight of the chair dragging him farther into the blackened depths of the river. He hadn't realized how deep it was here, had thought that it would be a sort drop to the muddy bottom. Terror gripped him as he began to consider that this might be the end, that he could be drowned like any common man. He'd never thought that he'd make it to old age; hell, he had personally done things to his body that would ensure he didn't make it past his thirties, but he certainly didn't think he'd die like this. Die cold, so cold it was burning; die with his mouth heaving in more water than his lungs could possibly expel, mouth gaping and crying out with the pain of all that icy cold water freezing his throat, his lungs, his heart.

He finally struck the bottom. He felt the dull squelch as he sank ever so slightly into the muck and filth of the river, but he couldn't be bothered with the sensation at the moment. Someone was swimming towards him, not from above as he had expected, but from the side. They were so close that he could feel the heat radiating from their body. They hovered just out of sight, the silty water making it impossible to see beyond a meter. Suddenly, though, they surged forward, snarling as half rotten hands gripped his throat.

_Oh, god._

Jim began frantically writhing, fingers desperately clawing behind himself at the ropes that held his hands bound. He tried turning his face away from the grotesque sight in front of himself, but Carl wouldn't have that. He reached up and tore at Jim's face until he was forced to look back up into those deadened eyes. They were black, so flat and black and full of loathing, loathing that pulsed through his body and generated enough heat to burn where he touched Jim's skin. He could feel the burns searing through flesh, exposing his nerves and bones below while Carl crushed him, crushed the life out of his through his collapsing throat. Unable to control his terror, Jim tried crying out, pathetic little bubble streaming from his mouth as he managed only the most weak of screams.

Carl sneered down at him, his decomposing skin revealing far too many yellowed teeth. "Funny meeting you here, Jimmy boy."

Jim shuddered, even the words burning marks of hatred into his skin. He closed his eyes, futilely trying once again to block out the sight before him.

"No!" Carl brutally shook him, wrenching his fingers through his hair and forcing Jim to look back up at him. "I want to watch. See the panic in your eyes, watch you drown like I'm sure you watched me."

Jim felt the veins rupturing in his eyes, around his heart. Blood flooded into his lungs to mix with the water and ice. He was nothing, just a crumbling fortress collapsing to the ground as bombs tore it apart from the inside out. Jim felt his awareness drifting. Blissful oblivion was beginning to creep into his peripherals, overtaking his sight and clouding it in fuzzy layers of diffraction.

"No. You're staying with me the entire time, Jimmy. I don't want to miss a second of this."

He gasped as he was viciously jarred back into consciousness, those prying fingers ripping through his skin to force his awareness.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

John sat up, gasping as the crash of the front door jarred him back into consciousness. He moaned, rubbing fingers over his eyes to force his awareness. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to leave the flat at absurd hours of the night, but he was usually courteous about doing so and didn't make a point of slamming doors.

John rolled out of bed, toes curling as his feet touched the cold floor beneath. He padded down the stairs and into the lounge, frowning at the mess still scattered across the table. He silently cursed Sherlock and began scooping the Chinese containers into the garbage. Clearly, he had overestimated Sherlock's capabilities in regards to common courtesy. He frowned as his cleaning led him over to the sofa. Papers were strewn all across the floor and the cushions like a bread crumb trail leading John through Sherlock's actions during the night. He finished collecting the empty food containers before beginning to tend to the papers. He pushed them into an orderly stack, only vaguely aware of what he was doing through his sleep-fogged mind. He snatched the file folder he saw sitting on the armrest, carelessly stuffing the papers into it in an assumption that this was where they belonged. Sherlock would straighten it out in the morning if he didn't like the arrangement.

John yawned and shuffled into the kitchen to put the kettle on before little flags began popping up into his mind. Those papers...

Oh, fuck.

Without a second thought, John ran to his room and hurriedly donned the uniform that Sherlock had stolen for him earlier that day. He then grabbed the file and ran through the door, allowing it to slam closed as it willed. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, _he chanted to himself as he hailed a cab and directed it to the surgery. He sat in the back, anxiously twisting the edge of his jacket.

Sherlock wouldn't kill Jim. He wouldn't. Not when Jim was unconscious and helpless. He would want to do it in a big showdown of some sort. Would want it as big and flashy as possible. Would probably even make sure it involved a waterfall for good measure. That's the way Sherlock would kill Jim. Big, flashy, and melodramatic. No, he wouldn't do it tonight. Probably just went to deduce how he had been injured in the first place.

He was just a few minutes away from the hospital when his phone rang, nearly causing him to jump as he was startled out of his own thoughts. "Hello?"

"John." It was Sherlock's voice, breathy and a little panicked sounding.

"Oh god, Sherlock. Please tell me you didn't kill him." The cabbie threw John a questioning look which John ignored as he listened to Sherlock's reply.

"What? No. Well, not yet. There's been a bit of an incident and his ventilator became disconnected. I wasn't sure what to do, so I called you."

"Fuck. Okay, how long has it been disconnected?"

"Approximately one minute."

John quickly did the math. The average human could survive eight minutes without oxygen. He was three minutes from the hospital, and it would take a few extra minutes to set up the ventilator once again. "Have you started CPR yet?"

"Obviously. Although getting the tube out was a bit tricky. You may have to take a look at his throat later."

"Alright, well I'm almost at the hospital. Have whoever is doing it keep up the CPR. I need you start setting up the ventilator again, though. I'll talk you through it..."

John reined in his reserves of military calm while talking Sherlock through the placement of wires and which switches should be flipped in which direction. He broke from the cab in a run, not even bothering to count out bills as he burst out of the door and into the hospital. He continued giving Sherlock directions, all the while jogging through corridors and running up stairs. His face was flushed by the time he actually made it to the room, but he had gotten there just in the nick of time. He pushed Sherlock aside, deftly finishing up his job and turning to Jim's bedside. He nudged Sebastian out of the way and quickly re-intubated Jim before flipping the switch on the ventilator. Their efforts were rewarded by the hiss and hum of oxygen being pushed into Jim's lungs. John checked his patient's pulse before wheeling around to glare at Sherlock and Sebastian.

"You stupid gits!"

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"Jim, you stupid git, come on. Breathe. Please, Jim. Come on, _breathe,_ godammit!"

Abruptly, Jim sputtered and began violently coughing and retching as Sebastian rolled him onto his side so as to avoid having him choke on the mess all over again. Jim gagged, curling in on himself in an effort to regain some body heat. He frowned as he felt himself being pulled up and backwards, only to find himself tucked against Sebastian's slightly warmer, albeit still wet and cold, form.

"S-s-seb?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"N-next time, you g-get p-pushed into the r-river."

"Right." They lapsed into silence, Jim's eyes roaming over the other men as they cleaned up the slaughtered gangsters. A smirk played at his lips as he saw that the leader had bullet holes riddled all through his chest.

"G-got a little over-z-zealous, then?"

"Nah. The bastard deserved it."

One of the other snipers stepped up, tossing a thick blanket to Sebastian. He adjusted his grip on Jim so he could pull the blanket tightly over his shoulders and tuck it underneath his legs. He then began rubbing his hands aggressively over Jim's arms in an attempt to bring back some of his blood circulation.

"Never learned how to swim?" He gave Jim a teasing smirk, to which Jim responded with an exasperated sigh.

"It didn't seem like a productive use of time. I never really liked water, anyway."

"Of course. You'd have been too busy learning how to build bombs using nothing but petroleum jelly and shampoo." He grinned and ruffled the blanket over Jim's hair to swipe the cold water droplets away. Jim gave an agitated sound, but otherwise didn't protest Sebastian's treatment. "Oh, and Jim?"

"Yes, Seb?"

"Next time, don't tell the gangsters I'm your bitch. I've got a reputation, too, you know."

Jim snickered, grinning up at Sebastian in a devious sort of way. "But it was so much fun to watch his face! You just _know _that he was considering what it'd be like to fuck you. And don't tell me you didn't see the erection he got afterwards. Oh, it was priceless! And all for my little Sebby." Jim nuzzled his face into Sebastian's shoulder, giggling hysterically.

He could always count on Seb to keep Carl away. Always.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author: In which Hannelore-Grace says, "Screw the canon!" and rewrites minor details of TGG to suit her purposes. Nothing major, just little quirked details.**

John was thankful that his hands were too occupied taking care of Jim for him to strangle Sherlock and Sebastian. Because he would have; he really and truly would have loved to knock their heads together and maybe even give them each a good kick in the chest, just so they would have an inkling of how badly they had mucked things up.

"Honestly, John, I don't see how this is my fault. Sebastian was the one that attacked me without any proper cause."

"Proper cause? You were getting ready to kill him!"

"I was not. You merely failed to observe that my hand was around his chin, not his neck. If you would take a moment to collect all the data before jumping to erroneous conclusions, we might have avoided our little spat."

"And if you would stop sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong, then we wouldn't have these misunderstandings in the first place."

"Please, it is my business to investigate when a certain flatmate of mine lies to me and takes a criminal mastermind under his care."

Gritting his teeth, John spun around to turn the full force of his glare on the two bickering idiots. "I honestly don't give a damn about who started it. You're both at fault here, and thanks to your stupidity you've likely set his recovery time back by weeks. Now he's got three broken ribs, a bruised sternum, and an increased risk of respiratory infection to deal with on top of everything else."

Sebastian at least had the decency to look guilty. Sherlock, on the other hand, simply continued to peer over John's shoulder at Jim as if he were a particularly interesting new specimen of bacteria.

"What were you even doing here in the first place, Sherlock? You could've just asked me if it was Jim; I wouldn't have lied then."

"Oh, so we're on a first-name basis now?"

"Don't be a child."

Sherlock scowled, but he was obviously anxious to start spewing whatever deductions he had made and therefore chose to ignore John. "Yes, I could have come to you and asked, but then I would have lost the valuable experience of examining Jim with my own eyes. You see, I had ample opportunity to peruse his file which you openly left in plain sight. Really, John, if you don't want me going through your things, you should at least take better care to not leave them in the lounge."

"Yes, please forgive me for assuming that my flatmate has the decency to not rummage through my possessions."

"Anyway, from the file I was able to garner a significant amount of information and form a hypothesis regarding our _dear friend _Jim's peculiar behavior. However, I couldn't support this hypothesis without further data. Since you can hardly be expected to observe the important details, John, I took it upon myself to come and make the observations myself-"

"Hold on," Sebastian cut in. "You keep talking about his file, but that's a fake, obviously. We've got a whole bin of falsified medical records and other paperwork of the like. Jim would never be dense enough to just give you that sort of personal information."

"Yes, I was curious about that myself, too. However, my questions on that count were answered when I arrived here. Clearly, his condition was very severe when you left your living quarters, causing a great deal of panic on your part. Nobody likes it when their boss and potential lover starts having seizures-"

"Hold it! He's not my potential lover."

"Only because he's incapable of reciprocating your feelings towards him. Now would you please stop interrupting? Thank you. Anyway, in your panic you didn't look too thoroughly at the file you took from aforementioned bin, and thus made the mistake of grabbing the real medical file. Jim, of course, would have wiped any data servers of this information, but would be incapable of completely destroying it due to the fact that it chronicles his childhood in a way that he can not. So he kept the hard print copy due in part to practicality and in part to sentimentality. Similar to how he kept his original first name when constructing his new identity. James Adair Doyle, now there's a stereotypical Irish name if I've ever heard one. Clearly, his name stems from a whole line of Doyles, thus showing why he would keep the first bit of his name; like the medical file, it acts as a link between his present self and the past self that he can't recall."

"Now you've lost me, Sherlock. You keep talking as if he has amnesia, but there's nothing there to support that."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, John. There's plenty here. But the amnesia is just a symptom; let's start with the cause. Now I'm sure that even you, John, have drawn the conclusion that Jim was a victim of child abuse; it's clear enough from his medical history and the fact that he referred to himself as "Daddy" when speaking to his self-proclaimed arch nemesis. You also have probably determined that he had bipolar disorder with psychopathic tendencies-not actual psychopathy, mind you, that comes later. Given that he suffers from a mental disorder, it is very likely that his mother did the same. These sorts of things run in families, you know. So, a single mother working to raise a child with multiple mental deficiencies all the while suffering from her own depression and paranoia? More than a bit not good. She becomes convinced that her child is evil, that she has spawned some terrible beast of a human. Half-correct on that count, but only just so.

"So she seeks out someone to help. The years of therapy haven't thus far, and each psychiatrist has persistently assured her that her child just needs more time adjusting to society. So she goes off the map and hires someone more willing to take drastic actions. While uncommon, there are those that still practice electroshock therapy, for a price, obviously. If performed correctly, it can actually help some patients, but it gathered such a bad reputation in the mid-twentieth century that it is rarely used today. Anyway, Mrs. Doyle hears of this and hires a practitioner of her own. Something went wrong, however, which leads to our little Jimmy being brain damaged.

"The evidence of the abuse of the electroshock therapy is clear. First there's his medical record, in which it states that he was taken to the hospital after having suffered electrical burns on his hands and skull. His mother likely added the burns on his hands to cover the oddity of the ones on his scalp, and since Jim already had a history of playing with electricity, it wasn't questioned too thoroughly. The doctors didn't scan for brain damage at that time, either, because they believed that the skull hadn't been directly affected by the shock. Odds are that Mrs. Doyle told them Jim had been wearing protective goggles at the time which had metal bits on them, hence causing the burns on his head. These scars are now mostly hidden by his hair and the fact that they are seventeen years old.

"Now, since you, John, most kindly provided me with Jim's CT scans, I can be so bold as to say that, as a result of the botched electroshock therapy, Jim suffered damage to his frontal lobe, thus tipping him over the edge to psychopathy. First we consider his therapist's records, which note a distinct increase in his willingness to talk during their sessions. Increased talking overall is a side effect of damage to the frontal lobe, as is an impaired ability to recognize right and wrong and social norms. Given our past experiences with Jim, I believe we can check off those symptoms as being accurate. Furthermore, a loss of sexual interest is common in patients with frontal lobe damage. Considering that Jim obviously has yet to reciprocate Sebastian's advances, despite the fact that Sebastian is an attractive and trustworthy partner, coupled with how openly he uses sex to manipulate others, as if sex is meaningless and just a tool to be wielded when necessary to Jim, we can conclude that this is true of him also. Finally, there's his anosmia."

"Anosmia? Sherlock, there's nothing here that says he's lost his sense of smell."

"No," Sherlock sighed, his frustration at being thrown off his deduction making evident in his rolled eyes. "But there was plenty to support it back at the lab the first time we met. If you recall, there were some rather pungent chemicals sitting on the lab table, and yet he didn't even wrinkle his nose when he stooped right next to them to drop his number under the dish. Then there is his cologne. It is expensive, and yet not strong enough to cover the stench from his marijuana habit. Given how cleverly he manages to conceal every other bit of personal information from the casual observer, we can conclude that he has no means of telling whether or not he has completely masked the smell. And finally, there's his cologne itself. A nice brand, but not a scent I believe that Jim would choose for himself if he could. No, it's too fruity and effeminate. He would want something that smelled of dominance, something more musky and masculine to help project the image of control and preeminence. This means that he entrusts his choice of cologne to someone else's expertise." Sherlock rounded on Sebastian with a raised eyebrow.

"What? So I help him choose his cologne, it's not like that says much of anything. Maybe he's too busy to do it himself."

"Interesting." Sherlock smirked. "When given the chance to decide what your potential sexual partner will smell like, you chose a scent with feminine undertones. Not necessary a girl's scent, but not something that a strong, domineering man would wear. Is this the first time you've been attracted to a man then? Subconsciously trying to rationalize your newfound homoerotic fantasies by immasculating the object of your affections?"

Sebastian's hands were clenched firmly at his sides and his jaw was tightly set with the strain of not lunging at the detective. "Shut up." At this point, John couldn't say with utter certainty whether or not he'd stop Sebastian from pummeling Sherlock into the ground.

"Alright, Sherlock. This is all very interesting, but none of it proves that he has amnesia."

"Right. Well, from the other evidence we've gathered, the extent of the damage is fairly clear. A shock that both wiped out his sense of smell and his perceptions of risk and rule-abiding could easily have caused damage to the memory cortex, also. Then there's the way he collects mementoes. If you recall, your dog tags went missing directly after the incident at the pool, John; Jim could have easily nicked these while strapping you up in semtex. Then there's the case of my missing watch. Since I had been knocked unconscious following the explosion, it's probable that Jim snagged it while making his exit. I'm sure that even Sebastian, dim as he is, has noted Jim's peculiar talent for hoarding objects he deems have sentimental value." Again, Sherlock looked at Sebastian questioningly.

"He does have rather a lot of nick knacks," Sebastian said resignedly.

With a smirk, Sherlock continued. "Such behavior is common in patients with amnesia. They feel like their situation could have been avoided if only they had kept better record of their lives before the incident, and thus they habitually catalog any moment that could possibly be important. I'd even go so far as to wager that Jim has a thoroughly well-guarded journal kept somewhere in his home, probably in an encrypted file on his computer. I doubt he has full amnesia, as that is quite rare and almost never occurs without significant damage to other processes of the mind too. This leads me to believe that only bits and pieces of his childhood were erased due to the shock, but to Jim, whose mind rebels at the idea of any knowledge being inaccessible to him, the loss would have been intolerable. Probably when he figured out that his mother had been the cause of this loss was also when dear little Jim decided to murder her."

"How do you know that he murdered his own mother?"

"I can't say for sure without further evidence, but his mother's date of death was noted in his psych file shortly after he was tested for Ebola. Obviously, these two incidents are connected; the mother was probably diagnosed with the virus, and he was tested to make sure that he hadn't contracted it. She died just a bit afterwards. Considering our friend's penchant for poisoning people's skin creams, we can infer that he was the one that infected his dear mother with this rare and deadly virus. With good cause, I suppose, but it was still unnecessarily dramatic. The virus is noted for the violent way in which it kills victims. I'm sure that watching the hemorrhaging it caused in his mother was quite cathartic for Jim."

A silence overtook the room once Sherlock concluded his deducing. John was feeling deeply appalled, although at what exactly he couldn't be sure. It was a deep, gut-clenching sort of revulsion, possibly simply directed at the world in general, at the fact that so many could turn blind eyes to what was going on behind closed doors. He liked to imagine that, if he had been one of Jim's doctors, he would have intervened and protected the boy from further harm. Even now, John felt the urge to act as a shield for Jim against all things bad. He knew it was illogical, knew that this revelation didn't condone any of the lives Jim had taken, but he still couldn't shake the image of a beaten and broken Jim waking up to find half his past erased.

"Of course, I could be wrong about all of this. It's possible that I misread the information not printed in the file. Doubtful, but possible."

Sherlock's admittance that he could possibly be wrong was enough to illustrate how he felt about the matter. It showed that, in some deeply buried recess of that brilliant mind, a part of Sherlock was distressed enough to want to be wrong, for the whole story to have been fictionalized. John knew that Sherlock would never admit to it, but reading the subtext of Sherlock had become a talent of John's, and he could see it as clearly as if the detective had written it on a poster a held it above his head.

Sebastian merely took his seat next to Jim once again. He sat quietly with his hands tucked into his lap and avoided looking too closely at the bandaged body laying next to him. Now that Sherlock had pointed them out, he couldn't stop seeing all the scars. He had always assumed that they were from some of Jim's less successful shenanigans prior to enlisting Sebastian's help. Now he couldn't stop imagining new stories behind those marks, stories involving belts and fists and knives all wielded by a mother that was supposed to protect Jim. He wished that Jim hadn't killed the bitch, just so that he could go and do it now. At least then he would be doing something helpful, not just sitting here on his thumbs, unable to relieve Jim of his burden.

"Well, it's pretty late, and I would like to get some sleep eventually tonight, so I suppose you and I should be off, Sherlock." John turned to the detective with a forced sort of smile. The one that person gives when trying to be okay, but obviously failing. Yet again, and for the first time since Afghanistan, John had realized that he couldn't cure everyone; that some people were just permanently broken, and would either learn to live with it or die under the strain. Jim was taking the long way of doing it, but he certainly fell into the latter category.

"Right." Sherlock stood in the threshold of the doorway, casting Jim one last look. John couldn't read the significance behind his expression, but it was too dark and brooding to be meaningless.

"Call me if anything changes. Especially if he develops a fever."

"Will do." Sebastian seemed to sink lower into his chair as he cleared his throat. "And, um, Sherlock...Sorry about, you know, choking you. And all that other...stuff."

"Consider it forgotten."

Once Sherlock and John had finally vacated the room, Sebastian scooted his chair just a bit closer to Jim's bed. This way, he reasoned, it would be easier for him to see the early manifestations of a fever in the dim light. It would also be easier, he told himself, to feel for a fever through physical contact. As such, he assured himself, it was perfectly reasonable to hold Jim's hand once again. And if his fingers stroked through Jim's hair a bit while he was checking for heated skin, who could blame him? It was purely accidental, he told himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author: Sorry for taking so long to update this one; there's only so much angst and gloom you can write in one go before it starts to get to you. Happier times ahead, though! Also, all America-mocking is done in good humor. I myself am an American, and proud to be such. **

Once the buzz of the ventilator was cut off, the silence that overcame the room was near maddening. Sebastian had thought that he wanted nothing more than for the foreboding humming to leave, but the quiet that stole over Jim's bed after it was gone was enough for him to wish it was back, to wish it was there still forcing Jim's lungs to supply his cells with oxygen. Sebastian glanced up warily at John, his concern showing in the faint lines on his brow. John cocked his head, but then gave an understanding smile.

"He'll be fine. He doesn't need it anymore. Look," he took Sebastian's hand and put it on Jim's chest so he could feel the rise of it beneath his palm. "He'll be awake in a little while. You'll just have to wait a bit longer."

"Right." Sebastian said it gruffly, pulling his hand away from Jim. John smirked at him ever so slightly, but his good humor began to dissipate as he considered what exactly Jim would be waking up to. He shifted awkwardly, knowing that he should tell Sebastian if only so he would be prepared for Jim's reaction when he awoke.

"Um, Sebastian, you do know that he was-"

"Yes. I'm not a fool." Sebastian's jaw clenched and his fingers dug into his thighs as he thought about it. He would take care of it, though, just as soon as Jim was well again.

"Right. Just...Be careful." John didn't very well want Sebastian's near-constant manhandling of Jim to set off some less-than-pleasant memories, especially when he would be in such a fragile state immediately following the coma.

"John," Sebastian looked directly at him, something which he rarely did if he could avoid it. "I've lived with him for two years now. I've seen him drugged out his mind, near catatonic with depression, and threatening to jump off the balcony because the milk went off. I think I can handle this." Strangely enough, a small smile was tugging at Sebastian's lips as he thought about some of Jim's more eccentric episodes.

"Right." Suddenly, Sherlock's propensity for destroying walls didn't seem that bad at all. "Well, I'm going down to the cafeteria. Do you want me to bring you something?"

"Will Jim be able to eat or drink when he wakes up?"

"If he feels like it. He may have a bit of nausea, but otherwise it would be fine."

"Could you just bring back a sandwich for me and a chocolate milk for him then?"

"Yeah, no problem. Be back in a bit."

Once the door had closed behind John, Sebastian propped his arms on the rail of Jim's bed and stared down at him intensely. He looked better now than he day a few days ago; the bruises on his face had faded slightly and he had regained his usual, albeit still pale, skin tone. He almost looked well; at least, he no longer looked like an animated corpse.

He continued his studious observation of Jim for quite sometime, watching intently for signs of his returning consciousness. Occasionally he could see it in the flicker of eyes beneath lids, the tick of a muscle in his neck. Slowly his lips parted, moaning a low exhale. Sebastian scooted closer to the bed, remaining close enough so that Jim could easily see him when his eyes finally opened.

"Jim?"

He received a grunt in response, followed by Jim scrunching his face up in displeasure at being awake. Sebastian smiled but otherwise remained quiet. Having spent a fair amount of time heavily drugged on pain medication himself, he knew how frustrating it was have people throwing prying questions at you when you could hardly remember your own name, much less recall that ceilings weren't supposed to be moving in undulating waves. Jim's fingers twisted into the sheets and Sebastian could see his toes curling beneath the covers. Just like Jim to test the security of the world around him before exposing his mind to the chaos.

Then, with none of the drama that the moment deserved, Jim opened his eyes.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim opened his eyes.

"Seb, I can't sleep with you sitting in the corner staring at me like that."

"Well, tough nuts. You're the one that's gone and gotten yourself a murderous arch-nemesis; now you get to deal with the consequences."

"Really, Seb, it's nothing to be worried about."

"Nothing to be worried about? Jim, someone fired a crossbow at your head today! A bloody crossbow, for chrissakes."

Jim's lips twisted into a smirk. "I thought it was amusing. And they missed, so everything's fine."

"The only reason they missed is because I tackled you to the ground."

"Yes, but that's not the point. They still missed, I'm still alive, and now we can all get over the crossbow incident and think about more important things."

"Like?"

"Like the fact that I haven't slept in a week and if you ruin this chance for me to get a bit of rest, I'm going to be very put out."

"You do realize that threatening your hired muscle is counter-productive, right? I mean, the whole reason you have me is because you're too weak to take care of yourself."

"I'm not weak."

"Right. And you _didn't_ just have me open a jar of jam for you not two hours ago."

"It was impossible! Even you strained to open it. And don't think I didn't see that vein of yours bulging while you opened it; there's no use denying that it was difficult."

"Fine. Yes, it was harder than usual, but it wasn't impossible."

"Anyway, this doesn't solve the underlying issue of me needing to sleep. I can't do it; not if you're hovering in the corner doing your best impression of the Oogie Boogie man."

"Oogie Boogie?"

"Yes, Oogie Boogie! And trust me, you're doing quite well with your impression."

Sebastian heaved a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling in exasperation. He was very aware that Jim needed sleep; he had just come off a rather long bout of insomnia and was beginning to look run down even beneath the fastidious grooming. "Fine. What do you suggest we do, then? Because I'm not leaving you in here alone."

Jim remained quiet for a long moment before grinning and tossing all his pillows to one half of the bed and scooting over, patting the space he had vacated. "You can lay here. It'll be like a sleep over!"

"Jim, adults don't have sleep overs."

"Well, I never got one when I was kid, so I want it now."

He stared at Sebastian with the same expression he wore when ordering him to knock a man's teeth out, thereby eliminating any possibility of this being a joke.

"Fine." Sebastian pushed himself from against the wall and laid stiffly across the bed. He shifted around uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of how intimate sleeping in someone's bed is, whether or not you're in a relationship. He supposed that, in a way, this was better, though; he would have a better opportunity to throw himself over Jim to protect him from any danger in this position.

"Much better." Jim gave a contented sigh and curled onto his side, practically disappearing in the stack of pillows piled all around himself.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim opened his eyes.

"I've got it."

"Mm." Sebastian simply flicked over to the next page in the paper, barely glancing above the page to raise an eyebrow at his boss. The man had been pacing around his office for over three hours now, murmuring frantically to himself and occasionally stepping over to the white board on the wall to scribble furious little equations across it. He had finally lapsed into a near-catatonic state, standing in the center of the room with his eyes closed and face turned upwards as if praying for divine inspiration.

"I've got it, I've got it, I've got it! It's so obvious! It's all so clear now, why didn't I see it before? Of course, my mistake is so obvious!" He ran back over to the white board and began furiously erasing it before uncapping a marker and scrawling across the board in a complex system of numbers and letters, all the while giving ecstatic little exclamations and flailing his non-dominant hand to draw attention to an area of particular genius. He was practically hyperventilating as he finished the equation with a final flourish of his marker. He gasped, his face alight and eyes wild as he checked his work for any errors. There wouldn't be any, of course. Once Jim solved a problem, it was done perfectly.

"It's beautiful..."

Sebastian finally tossed his paper aside and rose to stand next to Jim, raising an eyebrow at the jumble of nonsense on the board.

"Okay, then. What problem have you solved now?"

"The American budget crisis! Look, I even left them with a profit of two trillion by 2025! Genius, isn't it?" He smiled at his work rapturously, stroking his fingers between a set of numbers. "Although it would require that they sell a third of the population under the age of eighteen into slavery. But only the bottom third; I could even design a program for them that determined which children should be sold, based on educational merit and talent."

"Of course." Sebastian shook his head, trying to fight off laughter at Jim's proposal. "So are you going to write it up in a report for them and ship it off to Congress, then?"

"No," Jim smirked. "Let them drive themselves into financial ruin. Maybe that will stem the tide of terrible movies they insist on producing."

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim opened his eyes.

"Seb?"

"I'm here, Jim." He knelt next to him, gently placing his hand on Jim's shoulder to show that he was close.

"How much longer?"

"The doctor said he couldn't be sure because he doesn't know what dosage they gave you, but it should only be a couple of more hours."

"Break his nose later, yeah?"

"Yeah." Sebastian smiled, pulling his hand away from contact on Jim's arm. Abruptly, though, Jim flailed his hand outward until he smacked Sebastian's shirt and his fingers curled into the fabric.

"Don't."

"Okay." Sebastian moved his hand back onto Jim's arm while Jim's eyes roved unseeingly over Sebastian's form.

"Want to have another sleep over?" His voice wasn't weak, but it was certainly more quiet than usual, lacking the jovial sing-song quality it normally had. And he was speaking in his English accent, never a good sign.

"Yeah, sure. Should I go get some popcorn?"

Jim's mouth twisted in contemplation, obviously debating the pros and cons of popcorn. "Yes, but I'm coming with you." He sat up and spun around on the bed, his bare feet hitting the carpet below.

"Jim, I don't think-"

"Really, Sebastian, it's my own flat. I'm not going to get lost. And if it will make you happy, I'll hold your arm until until we get into the kitchen, and then I'll sit like a good boy on the stool while you make the popcorn."

"Fine." He let Jim wrap his hand around his bicep, smiling as Jim's eyes widened in surprise while he squeezed the muscle curiously.

"You're beefy."

"You've seen it before."

"Yes, but I haven't _touched _it. Do you feel like this all over?"

"I don't know, Jim. I don't make a point of feeling myself up."

"Now we both know that's not quite true," Jim smirked.

"Shut up. And you need to learn to knock."

"It's my flat; I shouldn't have to knock."

"Yeah, well I'm living here for your protection; you could at least give me a bit of privacy."

"I'll start giving you privacy when you start adequately protecting me, then."

Sebastian grew quiet, his eyes roving apologetically over Jim's fresh bruises and sightless eyes. "Sorry."

"It's not a problem." Jim tossed his head as if shrugging off something as insignificant as receiving scalloped potatoes when you ordered au gratin. "Just try to get there before the actual torturing starts next time, yeah?"

"There won't be a next time."

"Even better." Jim beamed as Sebastian directed him to the stool. "Make it extra buttery, too. And salty! And put some chocolate chips in."

Sebastian heaved a long-suffering sigh but began pulling the necessary ingredients out of the cupboards. Of course Jim couldn't be content with the popcorn from the bags. He just _had _to have it special made. Going to the cinema was a nightmare with him.

After a bit, they were settled back on Jim's bed with the bowl of popcorn tucked between them and some movie flashing across the television screen. Sebastian had worried about this arrangement drawing Jim's attention to the fact that his vision still had yet to return, but he seemed largely unbothered by it. In fact, he was more frustrated by the fact that he couldn't quite get his aim for the popcorn bowl right and therefore kept plunging his hand into nothingness instead of food. He gave an angry grunt before making a second attempt, this time snagging a handful of popcorn and chocolate chips which he then crammed inelegantly into his mouth. Sebastian gave an amused chuckle, entertained by Jim's violent crunching and puffed-out cheeks.

"Problems?"

"Yes!" Jim whined. "You keep moving the popcorn bowl."

"I haven't."

"You have, and I don't like it. It's not nice to abuse this, and I want you to stop."

"Alright. Fine. Whatever you say."

Jim made a grab for more popcorn, but this time just ended up groping Sebastian's thigh. He gave an angry howl and flopped his head back against the pillow in frustration.

"I just want some popcorn," he whimpered to the ceiling, his chest heaving with repressed sobs. Suddenly, Sebastian realized that this was about much more than just a late night snack. He watched as Jim struggled to glue himself back together, praying that the tears which were clouding his eyes didn't actually spill over onto his cheeks. In the years he had worked with Jim, he had only seen the man cry twice, and neither were experiences he wanted to relive again. He waited as Jim danced along the edge of a total breakdown, knowing that to interfere now would only tip him over. This was one of the moments when Jim needed to work on his own.

Finally, Jim's eyes dried and he simply stared blankly up at the ceiling, as if he could force the drug out of his system through will power alone. Sebastian waited a moment longer before scooping some popcorn into his fingers and nudging at Jim's lips. His eyes flicked over curiously, but he obediently opened his mouth and allowed Sebastian to feed him the popcorn. After a couple of more bites, he sat back up and scooted next to Sebastian such that his head was nestled against Sebastian's shoulder while he fed Jim the snack. They kept this up until the bowl was empty, and then Sebastian merely held Jim, letting him fall asleep with his head on Sebastian's chest and arms splayed over his waist and shoulder.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim opened his eyes.

"Hey," Sebastian leaned closer, running his thumb over Jim's knuckles. "You back with me?"

Jim's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Did I leave?" His voice was hoarse and choked, but John had told Sebastian to expect this. Intubation usually had this effect.

"For a bit, yeah." He reached onto the nightstand and retrieved a cup of water from the pitcher John had left there. "Here." He eased his hand under Jim's head, careful of the knot still on the back of his skull, and raised his head so he could take a sip from the glass.

Jim stared blearily up at Sebastian, his eyes making a concerted effort to draw the man into focus, but the drugs were still weighing heavy on his system and dragging him back into sleep.

"Seb..."

"Yes, Jim?"

"I want popcorn."

Sebastian smiled, brushing his fingers through Jim's hair. He was too dopey to remember it later, anyway.

"When we get home, I'll make you all the popcorn you want. With chocolate chips, too."

"And marshmallows?"

"If that's what you want."

"And a milkshake with chips?"

"That too."

"Good." Jim sighed, finally giving up the battle against sleepiness. His head rolled to the side, and his mouth fell open as if in anticipation of all the treats to come.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

**Author: So, I'm a bit torn. Obviously, this story is headed in the direction of Jim/Seb, but the question stands: To (Sweetly) Smut, or Not To Smut? There's a couple of ways I'm considering ending this, and whether or not Jim and Seb start a physical relationship kind of determines which one I choose. Anyway, cast your votes in the reviews; I'll take them into consideration when writing later. Thanks to all who have reviewed, alerted, or favorited; you all are wonderful!**


	10. Chapter 10

John returned to the room a little bit after Jim fell asleep again. He tossed Sebastian a carton of milk and a shrink wrapped sandwich before moving to Jim's side to check up on him.

"Did he wake up at all?"

"Yeah, for a bit. Long enough to ask for junk food, at least."

"Well, that's a start, I guess. I was hoping he'd stay awake long enough to answer a few questions, but they're not that important."

"If you're planning on asking him who the current prime minister is, it's a lost cause. He's convinced that there's some mysterious bigwig with an umbrella fetish running the British government."

"Er, right." John cleared his throat awkwardly and dragged his own chair up. "Sherlock's the same way, only he "deletes" the information to make room for blood splatter patterns and the like."

Sebastian smirked. "That's nothing. One time Jim spent so much time programming that he accidentally started writing notes using binary. Took him a week to get things sorted again."

"I found out that, despite speaking three language fluently and two more in fragments, Sherlock doesn't know the difference between an adjective and an adverb."

"Jim tried cutting the crust off a sandwich using a a meat cleaver once."

"I caught Sherlock trying to bash a screw into a shelf using a mallet one time."

"I bought Jim a houseplant as a birthday present a while back. He thought that it was the sun's heat that made plants grow, so he put it in the microwave to make it bloom faster."

John snorted in laughter, unable to hold it back as he imagined how surprised Jim would have been to find that he had cooked his marigolds. "Okay, I think you win with that one. Although I'm sure that Sherlock's done something just as ridiculous; I just can't remember anything right off."

"I don't know, John," Sherlock stated coolly from where he was leaned against the frame of the door. "You seemed to find it rather amusing when I used dish soap in the laundry."

"Sherlock," John smiled guiltily from his chair, embarrassed at having been caught. "I wasn't expecting you to stop by."

"Yes, well," Sherlock sniffed. "I knew you were taking Jim out of the coma today, so I thought I would drop this puzzle book off for him. Doubtless you wouldn't want your patient to die of boredom just after fixing him."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to see it, although I don't know how much puzzle solving he'll be able to do for the next couple of days. He's going to be pretty heavily drugged."

"That's why I brought him a coloring book, too." Sherlock dropped his bundle of books and crayons at the foot of Jim's bed. John raised an eyebrow at the assortment of coloring utensils and knick knacks Sherlock had brought; it looked as if he were supplying a five year old with a month's worth of goodies.

"You didn't rob a grade school teacher's treasure chest, did you?"

"No," Sherlock scowled. "I bought them. Well, most of them. Some I had laying around the flat. And some I nicked while at Lestrade's flat."

"I didn't know Lestrade has children."

"He doesn't. He has a child. A daughter, I believe, who lives with his ex-wife."

"Oh, well, that explains the My Little Pony story book, at least."

Sherlock smirked slightly. "I thought Jim would identify with Knight Shade."

"Oh god." John shook his head, but collected the book along with the other junk Sherlock had brought and dropped it into the drawer of Jim's nightstand. "Is that all you wanted, then?"

"Essentially, yes. Although I was hoping you would come with me to a crime scene. Sally has begun accusing me of murdering you due to your absence as of late, and I would much prefer to prove my innocence this way than by another drugs bust."

John frowned, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't leave yet. There's still a few things that I need to take care of here. I can give Lestrade a call, though, if you think it would help get them off your case."

"Right." For a moment, Sherlock almost looked disappointed, but then he regained his composure with a casual wave of his hand. "Of course. It's not a problem. I'm sure it's an open and closed domestic murder anyway, hardly worth my time. I'll be off then."

Sherlock strode out of the room just as abruptly as he had entered it, leaving a gaping silence in his wake. John cleared his throat and turned his attention back on his patient, carefully checking the various monitors around the bed before settling back down in his chair.

"When he's better, what are you going to do?"

"What?" John looked up from where he had been focusing on Jim's chart. He frowned, a bit confused by the dark expression on Sebastian's face.

"When he's better, are you just going to let him go? You and your crime solving boyfriend don't seem too apt to just let London's most intelligent criminal just slip through the cracks."

"That's true..." John ran his fingers through his hair, frowning up at the ceiling in concentration. He had really hoped to not have this conversation. He had really hoped that things would work themselves out without his having to make any sort of decisions or reconsider any of his ethics. Obviously, Sebastian was going to force the issue, whether or not John wanted to think about it at the moment. "I hadn't really thought about it, honestly. Although, I can promise that I won't do anything one way or the other until he's completely healthy."

Sebastian scowled a bit, apparently not satisfied with John's evasive, half-answer. Fortunately, however, Jim began moaning just as he opened his mouth to press further. Sebastian's attention was quickly diverted to Jim, and John sighed in relief at the distraction. He _really _didn't want to have that conversation, at least, not until he figured out what exactly he planned to do.

"Hello again." Sebastian's demeanor had changed completely; he was now smiling down at Jim affectionately and just barely touching his hand as if still afraid that hand-holding was forbidden.

"Again?" Jim's speech was indistinct at best, but still recognizable.

"Yeah. You woke up once a little while ago."

"Oh." He was shifting sluggishly beneath the covers as if trying to sit up, although it seemed that the medication was still making it difficult for him to have a proper understanding of the placement of his limbs. "Did we talk about marshmallows?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Good. Was 'fraid I dreamt it."

"Do you want anything? Are you feeling okay?"

"Drink?"

Sebastian nodded and poured the chocolate milk that John had brought earlier into a cup. He helped Jim sit up a bit before pressing the glass to his lips. All perfectly normal behavior for a patient and their caretaker. That is, until Jim's tongue darted out to taste and then his eyes grew wide in horror and he smacked the glass out of Sebastian's hand, causing milk to splatter across his front and sheets.

"Jim!"

"I don't want it!" Jim screamed. He looked to be on the edge of a complete meltdown; his shoulders were shuddering violently and his breath was coming in harsh, shaking gasps. "You can't make me drink it. I don't want it. Don't want to have it." He continued many variations of this, all the while teetering closer towards a full-scale panic attack.

"Jim..." Sebastian stared down at him blankly, not understanding at all where his sudden, vehement opposition to chocolate milk came from. "You like chocolate milk..." He finally finished lamely, his shoulders slumped as he realized he had no clue what to do for Jim.

Taking pity on Sebastian and realizing that the man was probably no less emotionally stunted than Jim himself, John stepped in to try his hand at defusing the bomb. "Hey, Jim. It's okay. If you don't want it, you don't have to have it." John wrapped his arm around Jim's shoulders, not quite restraining him, but applying enough pressure to ground him. "I can get you anything else you want. Would you prefer some juice or water?"

It took repeating himself a couple of times, but slowly Jim began to return to himself. John watched as the thrumming of Jim's pulse evident in his neck slowed, waited until his breathing had become more relaxed and less like desperate gasps. He continued rubbing slow circles on Jim's back while talking him down.

"Do you still want something to drink, Jim?"

He nodded, quietly muttering, "Apple juice."

John looked up at Sebastian who nodded his assent. He briskly walked in the direction of the nurse's station in order to retrieve the juice. He was confused; Jim loved chocolate milk and always asked for it, without fail. He was upset; he had never been so utterly useless in helping Jim when he needed it. He was angry; what right did John have to interfere? He would have gotten it under control eventually. Probably. Maybe. Then again, he thought that maybe he should be grateful for John's intervention. John seemed to have known exactly what to say and when to say it, whereas Sebastian always fumbled with these sorts of things.

Meanwhile, Jim was gradually settling back into something resembling normality. If collapsing into John's arms while murmuring something about "Don't want to sleep anymore" could be considered normality. John simply continued gently shushing him and muttering the usual soothing phrases while he waited for Jim to calm down.

"Feeling better yet?"

"No. I'm sticky."

John looked him over, slightly mystified at how a single cup of chocolate milk could cause such a mess, both literal and metaphorical. "You want to get cleaned up, then?"

"Yes."

John began going about the business of removing the evidence of Jim's panic attack, stripping the soiled cover off the bed and retrieving a rag to wipe the sticky liquid from Jim's arms and face. He was working on sponging down Jim's chest when Sebastian entered the room once again, carrying a cup of apple juice and looking as if he were seriously considering tackling John to the ground.

"Hey," John casually pulled away from Jim, smiling his best placating grin. "If you want to finish up here, I'll clean up the floor and get him another set of sheets."

"Yeah, sure." Sebastian stepped up to take John's place. He worked the rag around the various areas of stitching on Jim's stomach, cautiously applying as little pressure as possible. Jim gave a low hum of contentment, his eyes falling closed while Sebastian continued his work. "You're not going to fall asleep on my again, are you?"

"Mmhm." Jim's lips quirked in a small smirk but his eyes remained obstinately closed.

"Not very nice of you. It's been boring these past few days, you know. John's a nice guy, but he's dreadfully dull."

"I heard that," John said from the floor.

Sebastian grinned but kept on talking as if John hadn't interrupted. "And he has a terrible sense of humor. You should hear all the awful jokes he's been telling me. And that flatmate of his, he's an obnoxious sod."

Jim let out something close to a giggle, whether from Sebastian's verbal abuse of his nemesis or the careful cleaning that was coming dangerously close to stroking, Sebastian wasn't sure.

"Seb, you're tickling me." Jim gave another giggle as the rag dipped along his side to wipe away the last droplets of milk.

"Sorry." Sebastian quickly dropped the rag onto Jim's nightstand and pulled his gown back up around his shoulders, suddenly very aware that it was Jim, his _boss, _he had essentially been molesting.

"Seb?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"I'll drink your chocolate milk if you promise not to put drugs in it."

Sebastian frowned, looking Jim over to get a rough estimate of how aware he was. Judging by the half-dopey look in his eyes, not very. "I never put drugs in the chocolate milk, Jim."

"That's what Mother said, too."

"Oh." He shifted awkwardly, now completely unsure what was expected of him. "Um, I promise not to put anything in your chocolate milk, then."

"That's nice of you."

All through this exchange, John had been pulling fresh covers on Jim's bed and tucking them around his legs. This allowed him to do a quick check up of how the wounds below Jim's waist were healing while also surreptitiously feeling for any signs of fever and his pulse. All seemed in order, so he moved on to a more thorough examination. He pulled his clipboard over and cleared his throat, drawing Jim and Sebastian's attention to himself.

"John? Seb, why is he here?"

"He's your doctor, Jim."

"Oh." He blinked at John, cocking his head in confusion."Why?"

"Um...I'm not entirely sure. Maybe he'll explain it to you when you're feeling better. For now, why don't you just answer his questions?"

"Okay."

"Alright then," John flipped to the next page on the chart and clicked his pen. "What's your name?"

"James Smith-O'Connor-Franklin-Potter-Dickson-Moriarty-Doyle."

"Okay...That's good, I guess. Um, what year is it?"

"2010."

"Uh, that's..."

"No, that's right for him. He always subtracts a year because he believes that the year 2001 was a government conspiracy and should therefore not be counted."

"How does he-Never mind. Do you think he'll be able to answer 'How many fingers am I holding up?' like a normal person?"

"He might do it in Russian, but sure."

"Okay, Jim. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Quattuor," Jim smirked.

"I'm pretty sure that's four in Latin."

"Good. He seems fine, then, I guess. Well, no less fine than usual, at least. I'll have to do a more thorough check up later when he's less drugged, but I'm pretty sure we got everything taken care of before any permanent damage happened."

"Can I sleep now?" Jim's asking seemed completely redundant. He had already curled onto his side and his breathing was taking on the easy rhythms of slumber. Sebastian carded his fingers through his hair before quickly jerking them away and gruffly clearing his throat.

"Yes, that's fine. Sleep all you want."

"Mmkay. Don't forget that I want marshmallows when I wake up."

"Yeah, sure, Jim."

John and Sebastian remained quiet while Jim fell into sleep. John went about cleaning the rest of the mess from Jim's panic attack up while Sebastian sat protectively by Jim's side, now shamelessly clutching his hand as he recalled how helpless he had felt during the incident. He never wanted to be that useless again.

"You know," John said from the corner of the room where he was wringing out the rag in a sink. "Getting Jim into the hospital without anyone knowing was fairly easy, but I think that getting him out would be even simpler. Especially if one were to do it during the afternoon when the hospital's the most busy. I don't think anyone would pay too close attention to an orderly and a patient going on a bit of a walk around the hospital grounds."

"That makes sense..." Sebastian frowned at John, mostly understanding what he was saying, but also very dubious of his own interpretation.

"I think that Jim would really enjoy going on a walk, too. He'll probably be perfectly capable of it by the end of the week, in fact. Something to consider." John smiled that same cuddly-jumper smile he gave everyday, as if he weren't suggesting the easiest way to smuggle a criminal out of a hospital.

"Yeah," Sebastian smiled in return. "Jim does enjoy a stroll through the park once in a while. I'll be sure and mention the idea to him."

"Good." John began collecting his personal belongings and packing them into his bag. "I'm going to head home for a bit and catch some sleep, then. My phone number's on the nightstand, as usual. And why don't we hold off on the chocolate milk for a bit, yeah?"

"I think that's for the best."

John gave a half wave goodbye before easing out the door. Once the room was out of sight, he gave a long exhale. He suspected that he had just committed some great crime against humanity which he would be punished for in the afterlife. Then again, he was no saint, anyway, so he didn't think his chances of having an enjoyable afterlife were too good to begin with. People as hypocritic as himself didn't seem to fall into many of the good books of any religion. Really, the best he could hope for was being reincarnated as a beetle or maybe a moth. At least then his torment in the next life would be short. Shorter than this one, at least.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stepped down off the curb and briskly crossed the street. He had changed his usual outfit for the occasion, wearing a simple suit and a hat that emulated the styles of the other residents in the area. Nevertheless, he was still concerned about being spotted. He was sure that Jim, or more likely, Sebastian, had posted surveillance around the apartment building in front of him, and he would much rather not be caught by any of the watch dogs. As such, he slipped into the building as quickly as possible while still appearing casual. All things considered, he was able to mix in with the afternoon crowd far easier than he would have first thought. No one paid much attention to the up-and-coming son of some wealthy businessman. At least, that was the impression his costume was designed to project.

He found himself standing outside the proper door after a tense climb up the stairs. He had taken that route instead of the elevator thinking, not incorrectly, that he was less likely to run into one of Jim's guards. Despite this, he still became paranoid that every person he encountered on the stairs was one of Jim's men. However, he had found his way to the flat with ease, and this meant that the time he spent out in the open was lessened significantly. It had helped that he had followed Sebastian home twice now.

Picking the lock was a bit more troublesome than he had anticipated. Jim had apparently redesigned the lock himself and had done an admirable job of making the bolts inside it particularly difficult to manipulate with his tools. Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh, but his hands continued calmly working at the lock. Finally, he began to hear the soft clicks of the tumblers falling into the proper position. A couple of excruciating minutes longer, and he was finally slipping through the door.

His first impression of the flat was that it was very minimalist; he had expected an extravagant flourish of wealth and prestige. Instead, it was decorated in tans and browns, and the carpet was simple but very soft. Sherlock slipped off his shoes so as to avoid leaving any traces of dirt on its immaculately cleaned fibers. He quickly reevaluated his opinion of the flat, however, when he stepped into one of the rooms off to the side. This was apparently where Jim did most of his programming and computer hacking. There was a single circular desk surrounded by six separate computer screens. One of the walls also had a large whiteboard with a projector directed at it. Clearly, Jim didn't concentrate on frivolous shows of wealth, just those that also had a certain amount of functionality.

He knew that attempting to gain access to one of the computers was a pointless endeavor unless one had a fleet of highly trained professionals at their disposal, so he moved on to the next room. This was the bathroom, which he only gave a cursory search for the item he had come to find before stepping out to look elsewhere. The next room he deduced belonged to Sebastian; the closet contained far too many plain black shirts and black cargo pants to belong to Jim. That only left one last room at the end of the hall. He nudged the door open and peered in cautiously before stepping through the threshold.

The room followed the same color scheme as the rest of the flat, but it seemed far more alive than the others had. It wasn't messy, but it wasn't nearly as bare as the others had been. Stacks of magazines and papers laid on the nightstand, and the desk was littered with various objects of interest. Some were little figures, others containers of putty or clay, and still more were balls of varying sizes and composition. He deduced that this was where Jim did most of his brainstorming, whereas the computer room was where he actually formulated his ideas into a working scheme. All of this was interesting, but not of importance at the moment. Sherlock estimated that he had no more than an hour before Sebastian would be making his way home to run Jim's empire for the night. He needed to be sure to give himself plenty of time to arrange things in their proper order before leaving, also.

He quickly divided the room into sections. He would examine each one thoroughly before searching that particular section, so he could put things back correctly before moving to the next section. He began with the most obvious hiding place: the closet. He opened the doors and carefully examined the contents therein. Five suits were lined up such that the darker ones were at the far end and the lighter ones were in the middle. He patted them down to feel for any objects tucked into pockets, but quickly moved on to peer at the shoes. These were bare, too, so he began pulling down the boxes that were orderly tucked on a shelf above the hangers. These were filled with more knick knacks, fresh paper and sketch pads, and an assortment of coloring mediums. He stowed all these back away, checked to make sure that everything was in its proper place, and moved on to examine the telly and the shelving unit around it.

He continued through the room, repeating the same process for every area he sectioned off. His search yielded no fruits until he began to search through the bed. This was far more complicated than the rest of the room because it required stripping the sheets off the bed and carefully feeling through the mattress for any peculiar lumps. He also had to examine it for any stitched-up slits or other such hiding mechanisms. Once he was finished checking the mattress, he flipped it from atop the box springs and began the process anew while searching them. He was about to give up and concede that Jim likely didn't have what he was looking for when his knee slipped and thunked onto one of the boards of the box springs. He gave a curse, but underneath his swearing he heard something rattle. His eyes lit up, and he quickly rolled down onto the floor. He slipped beneath the frame of the bed, pulling a small torch from his coat pocket. He ran it over the bottom of the box springs, stopping when he saw just the faintest hint of a seam. He ran his finger over it, feeling it give ever so slightly. He then pulled it aside and revealed a zipper. Fascinating.

He eased the zipper open and cautiously stuck his hand up through the hole. A little pouch had been sewn into the box springs, and inside it nestled a rather aged-looking book. He gently pried it from its hiding place and rolled from in under the bed. He then placed it on the night stand while he carefully arranged the bed back into the order it had been in when he arrived. He even made sure that the pillows with the most wear were placed on top, just as they had surely been before he tossed them onto the floor. Once he was satisfied that everything was just as it should be, Sherlock took the book and sat in a corner of the room.

He first simply flipped the book over in his hands, carefully examining the outer covers of it. The binding of the book was straining to hold whatever was inside it, and there were additional pages glued, taped, and simply wedged in throughout it. The cover of it was bare except for lines of age and use. His fingers trailed over the spine which was worn and soft. Gently, he flipped the front cover open and began thumbing through the pages.

Jim's scrawl bloomed across each one of them, either in a journal-style entry or in rough sketches of a scene which he couldn't find the words to describe. Some pages had been written only to have the majority of the writing brutally crossed out later. Still others were stained, wrinkled from tears or splattered in blood. Sherlock paused at these, thoroughly reading what was written instead of simply skimming over them. A couple merely recounted dreams, or rather, nightmares, while others were episodes from his youth. Both made Sherlock give an involuntary shudder, and he hastened to flip to the next page after reading them. He found a whole section dedicated to police records of unsolved crimes all from the same town; they were all relatively petty offenses, destruction of private property and the like, but they all bore a similar mark. Jim had gone through and scrawled notes beside the pasted-in reports, either partially describing his recollection of the event or questioning whether it had been himself that committed them at all. Like Sherlock, he drew the conclusion that he had been the perpetrator, but he made notes which evidenced that he didn't remember his reasoning behind the crime or even committing it.

Throughout the book, Sherlock noted that the name Anthony was often repeated. At first, it was alluded to in recollections of dreams which involved water or trophies. These dreams always had a sort of fond tone to them, but a harsh undercurrent of regret tinted them all. This was evident in the darker themes at the corners of the dreams, things like dead snakes which they stumbled upon while swimming in the lake or clear waters which abruptly turned dark and murky. Later in the book, the name was spoken of in actual memories, not just dreams. At first, he was treated with a sort of hesitant trust, but then he was mentioned in some of Jim's fonder memories, described affectionately while Jim retold some story or another to himself. And then his name began to devour more pages, as if discovering one clear memory of Anthony had led to a whole flood of new ones resurfacing. Sherlock skimmed over these, not really interested in how Jim had spent his youth on the swim team, but then three entire pages were taken up by drawings, meaningless scribbles of faces and places which didn't seem to fit. They were pasted over other pages, and when Sherlock turned past them, the whole tone of the journal entries had shifted dramatically. As if Jim had been intentionally refocusing his mind to change it.

Odd. Sherlock continued to flip through the book, however, making note to come back to that section if he had time. The rest of it was a continuation of the journal-style recording of events from his childhood as they came back to Jim, while others described more recent events, including, interestingly enough, his meeting of Sebastian. Sherlock read over this encounter, smiling at the thought of how surprised Sebastian must have been to have unearthed a true genius completely on accident. From then on, Sebastian was mentioned repeatedly, but with much more caution than Jim had spoken of Anthony. He was treated as a dangerous pet, something to be enjoyed but never completely trusted. Finally reaching the end of the book, Sherlock discovered that Jim had pasted in multiple sheets of paper which folded out to reveal a timeline. Jim had apparently been using his scatterings of memories to try and formulate the events of his youth into a logical progression. Items were penciled in using little references to page numbers in the book, and some had been erased and the order rearranged as Jim was able to recall or piece together a new event. Overall, it seemed that he had been able to put together the major events of his childhood in some sensible formation.

Sherlock glanced at his watch and noted that he still had plenty of time before he would have to worry about Sebastian coming home. He flipped back to those three pages then, and began gently sliding his finger under the edge of the pasted-in drawings. They weren't going to come up easily, however, and so Sherlock drew his pocket knife out and flicked the blade open. He slipped the blade between the pages, working it carefully while he tried to break the glue loose without damaging the material underneath. It was slow work, but Sherlock was rewarded to see the looping scrawl of Jim's hand appearing underneath the drawing. He bit his lip, slowly peeling away each bit of the sketch above, his eyes alighting in excitement as the first page finally fell loose. He then turned his attention to the last two.

After what felt like an eternity, the pages slipped free. He turned back to the first and began eagerly reading. If Jim had been so intent to hide it, then the content was surely worth his attention. And indeed, it was. He read of Jim's triumph at the swim finals. Read of the subsequent encounter with Anthony in the shower. Read of Carl's jeer which struck the final nail into his coffin. As he read, the writing grew more and more frantic and sloppy. Instead of loopy curves, the edges became sharp and violent, and the pen seemed to have stabbed at the paper, leaving splatters of ink amid the wrinkled splatters of tears. As his tale concluded, the pen had apparently begun to shake almost too much to be controlled. Here, the words were wavering and stuttered. As Sherlock read, he could hear the rage and loss filling them, could almost hear Jim's voice narrating the tale all the while teetering on the fringes of a meltdown. The final sentences, however, were written perfectly clearly. The print was measured and determinedly controlled as Jim penned: **I will burn him**_. _Sherlock could hear the cold insanity echoing in the words, feel the shudder of terror that Anthony surely must feel when he thinks of Jim. Sherlock had no doubt that the man was still alive, still being tortured endlessly.

Sherlock went to Jim's desk and carefully pasted the pages back into the book, making sure that all the edges were perfectly aligned just as he had found them. He then tucked the journal back into its hiding place and finished erasing any evidence that he had been there, including wiping a rag over any surfaces that he thought could bear fingerprints. He doubted that Jim was that paranoid about people entering his flat, but it couldn't hurt to be too cautious. He then put his shoes back on an retreated to Baker Street once again. Retreated back into his reality, back into the orderly world of his mind. It was safe there; a little bizarre at times, but still safe.

He settled onto the sofa and began contemplatively stroking the bow over the strings of his violin. He had gone to Jim's flat with every intention of finding his journal or a similar item. He hadn't had a doubt that Jim had one stowed away somewhere. Finding it had been of the utmost importance. He needed to read it, to see what, if anything, separated himself from the psychopath. Although, even the term psychopath no longer seemed to adequately describe Jim. He had been shocked when he overheard Sebastian and John comparing the two of them, as if they were both just their little pet crazies to be paraded as they saw fit. And then Sherlock had to know, he just had to find out: Was he really the parallel to Jim? Was the only thing that separated the two of them a vague acknowledgment of social mores? Was it possible that, if given the proper motivation, he would topple over the border which Jim had crossed so long ago?

He still wasn't sure whether he had gotten his answer. The book had not only confused Sherlock further, but it had also made him question assumptions which he had already made of Jim. Suddenly, his perceptions of his nemesis were being spun through a meat grinder, and he was left with nothing but a muddled mush with which to try and shape his knowledge of the man. He was more conflicted now than he could ever remember having been, and it disturbed him. It made him want to tell John everything and then have John tell him how to feel. John would know. John was good at feeling and accepting. He showed Sherlock how to do these things, while also being accepting of Sherlock for what he was. And when Sherlock couldn't feel, John felt for him. John could do that now; John could listen and take everything from Sherlock, allowing the detective to feel centered and calm once again.

But telling John would mean admitting that he had broken into Jim's flat and searched through his possessions. Somehow, Sherlock didn't think that John would approve of that. So he would have to be silent. He would keep this all to himself; it would be a secret that he shared with Jim. Jim wouldn't even know that he was sharing his burden, but Sherlock wondered if maybe he would know on a level deeper than logic. Maybe part of him would know that someone else was being hurt by the knowledge, too, and it would take comfort in that fact.

"Are you home, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. In the lounge."

"Ah. Simple case, then?"

"Yes. Like I said, open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"That's unfortunate, I guess." John settled into his armchair and began rifling through the day's post. Sherlock watched him carefully, watched for any sign that he suspected Sherlock had been doing things of which he did not approve. Apparently not, because he continued about his usual evening routine.

"What if Jim would have been happier if you had let him die?"

"What?" John looked up from the mail, his eyebrows arching up in confusion. He blinked at Sherlock as if doing so could clear his ears and magically make him understand. Foolish.

"You yourself noted the marks of self-mutilation on his body. Not to mention the drug use, and other obvious signs of attempted suicide. What if by saving his life, you not only put society at large at risk of another one of his bombing sprees, but you also just forced him to continue living when he would rather have not?"

John lapsed into silence, staring down at his hands as if they could help him muddle through the question which Sherlock had posed. His head was cocked slightly to the side, and a deep frown etched its way onto his lips and in the lines on his forehead.

"What's brought this up?"

"Nothing. Curiosity. Simply wondering if your self-sacrificing would have been worth it if he's just going to off himself sometime in the near future. Probably slipping into unconsciousness and never waking up would have been much less painful than his chosen method of suicide, too."

"I suppose that I just assumed he didn't want to die at that particular moment, especially not considering the circumstances. Besides that, it's not in my nature to just let people die right in front of me. I may be a soldier, but I'm always a doctor first."

"How poetic."

"I'm so sorry you don't approve of basic human instincts, Sherlock, but you asked and I answered as best I could. I guess all I can do is hope that he doesn't turn around and blow his brains out the minute I've got them put back in their proper order. Is that good enough of an answer, or would you like to pick my psyche further?"

"Not at all. I've sufficient data."

"Good." John pushed himself up out of his chair and stomped up the stairs as he always did when Sherlock had agitated him. He knew that John would be back down in less than an hour, possibly still scowling but doing his best to smooth things over. John may have missed the war, but it was for the adrenaline, not the combat. He only waged war when it was necessary, and this most certainly was not necessary.

Sherlock continued plucking at his violin and staring up at the ceiling. He had gotten the expected answers from John. Those were simple. Now he wanted to ask Jim himself. Ask to confirm his hypothesis.

Because now he knew that, when Jim said that dying is what people do, it wasn't a threat against humanity; it was a promise to himself.


	12. Chapter 12

John concluded his examination by flashing a light into Jim's eyes, watching carefully to make sure that the pupils behaved as they should. Jim wrinkled his nose in displeasure but otherwise remained still and quiet. In fact, he had been eerily impassive through the entire process, only speaking when John asked him a question and even then giving terse answers which directly and succinctly answered John's queries. Considering how he had chattered endlessly during John's abduction and the subsequent encounter at the pool, this sudden change in behavior was quite unnerving to John.

"So," John said while dragging a chair up next to Jim's bedside. "Anything in particular on your mind?"

Jim looked over at John with the sort of incredulous expression which questioned his intelligence. "Far more than you could fathom," he stated coolly.

"Alright. That's not exactly what I meant."

"Then be more specific, _dear._"

John rolled his eyes but pushed forward with the frustrating determination of a soldier. "What I meant was, is there anything you would like to talk about, you know, concerning the attack?"

Jim cocked his head to the side, his eyes sweeping over John as he quickly analyzed the intent of his question. His eyebrows drew inward and his gaze narrowed in mistrust as he slowly drew out, "No."

John merely leaned farther back in his chair and watched as Jim wriggled beneath his gaze. He had dealt with Sherlock's darker moods before; he could certainly do the same with Jim. The man seemed to have a weakness which Sherlock did not possess, and that was an inordinate loathing of any sort of inactivity. While Sherlock could sulk on the sofa and stew for hours in his boredom, Jim's impatience always got the better of him, and John was counting on this attribute to force Jim to become more cooperative. Already, Jim was twisting on the bed, his eyes flickering over the room as he sought a distraction.

"Are you sure there's nothing you'd like to talk about?"

Jim's mouth twisted into a puckered scowl, but John could see the resistance slowly melting out of him. "Fine. I'll answer a question for every question of mine you answer."

"Fair enough. But I have the right to pass up your question for another one if I don't want to answer it."

"That's not fair!" Jim interjected. "I should be able to pass, too."

John rolled his eyes, but relented. "Okay. You can pass, too. I get to ask the first question, though."

"Shoot."

"How are you feeling? Honestly, now."

Jim gave a slight scoff but responded anyway. "My head hurts, and I want nothing more than to take a scalding hot bath." He paused, his gaze shifting up to the ceiling as he considered further. "I suppose I'm rather miffed that you're the one I'm having this conversation with."

"Well, you certainly weren't going to have it with Sebastian. Considering that he's the only person I've ever seen you even interact with, I'm assuming that you wouldn't get the chance to have this conversation otherwise."

"Seb," Jim shook his head, a small grin playing at his mouth, "is absolute rubbish at anything which requires high cognitive processes." Despite the blatant insult, Jim looked to be more fond of Sebastian than he would let on.

"Fair enough. I'm sure that Sherlock thinks that of me at times. Anyway, you can ask whatever question you have now."

"Why did you bother?"

"Funny, Sherlock asked essentially the same thing. I honestly don't know, Jim. I suppose that I didn't really think it through that much. If I had any sense, I would have left you in that waiting room for someone else to deal with. Probably you would have been too far gone to have any chances of getting better once they got around to trying to patch you up. I suppose it was selfish in a way, too. I don't think I could sleep easily knowing that I had left a man dead or severely handicapped."

"You killed Jeff."

John winced at the sound of the name. He didn't mind so much when Sherlock brought it up, because Sherlock always referred to him as "the cabbie" or "the pill bottle murderer." Somehow, hearing the man's name made it real. Made John realize that it was a man with a family he had killed. And yes, the irony of his name being Jeff Hope didn't pass unnoticed.

"I try to forget that, actually. And it was necessary."

"So you don't think that killing me is necessary?" Jim had his head tilted to the side once again. He was staring at John as if he were a rather interesting specimen at the bottom of a petri dish.

"Hey, no fair. That's two questions. You have to answer one of mine first."

Jim snorted but waved his hand to tell John to go ahead and ask away.

"When was the last time you attempted suicide?"

"It depends. Seb says that the pool was an attempt, but I say it was more like a slight oversight regarding the well being of my person. So if you're going by his book, then it's eleven months, twelve days."

John frowned. For some reason, he had never taken time to consider whether or not Jim had made it out of the pool safely. Sure, he had wondered how he had gotten away without the police or emergency response teams catching him, but he had never thought that Jim had likely been as injured as he and Sherlock had been. Possibly more so, considering how close he had been to the explosives.

"My turn!" Jim sing-songed. "Why don't you think that it's necessary to kill me?"

"Because you're not a direct threat at the moment. It would be the same as trying to disarm a bomb that hasn't even been activated yet. What's the point in wasting your time and possibly causing the bomb to go off while you're fiddling around with it unnecessarily?"

Jim grinned broadly at that. "So I'm a bomb, now?"

"I could think of a lot of words to describe you, but, yes, essentially you're a bomb."

"I like that."

"Figures. Okay, then. Why did you panic when Sebastian gave you the chocolate milk?"

Jim's grin promptly faded. He scowled down at his hands, looking as if he were seriously contemplating using a pass. The silence stretched to nearly painful bounds as he continued to debate with himself. Finally, he looked up with an expression of cold indifference, and he began talking in a steady monotone.

"My mother took offense to some of my more...eccentric behaviors in my late adolescence. Since I refused to take the latest round of medications she had procured for me, she found alternative methods of getting them into my bloodstream. Essentially, one morning I was eating my breakfast and preparing to go to school when I suddenly woke up and three days had passed without my knowing. She continued to drug my food and force-feed it to me, oftentimes in the form of chocolate milk."

There was no hesitance after Jim answered the question. Like a light switch, his face quickly became animated and alive once again, grinning broadly as he asked his next question. "So, are you and Sherlock shagging?"

"What?" John blinked. Of all the queries he had expected, that one was pretty far down on the list. "No, of course not. We're just flatmates."

"Mm," Jim frowned. "That's disappointing. I was really hoping that you two were having secret affairs behind closed doors. It would make sense, considering your reputation."

"Well, we're not. And half those rumors are stupid jokes from my military days." How Jim had even heard any of those rumors was beyond John, but he supposed that he probably didn't want to know. Best to leave these things unasked.

"Alright, then. What's your real voice sound like?"

Jim opened his mouth to respond, but then he slowly closed it. He frowned, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly as he tried to sort it out. "You know, I think I've rather forgotten. It certainly still has the Irish accent, though. Anyway, why is that important?"

"I don't know. Why is it important if Sherlock and I are shagging or not?"

"I could think of a variety of reasons, but I don't think you'd much like them."

"Let me guess, they all involve me being abducted again."

Jim smirked ever so slightly. "Essentially, yes. You'll be happy to know, though, that of all the people I've kidnapped, you were my favorite. I would consider kidnapping you again, if only to have the same fun we did that night at the pool."

"How charming. I'm very flattered." John rolled his eyes, but couldn't help feeling a vague sense of unease. Jim really hadn't done anything in the hours he had held John hostage. In fact, the utter lack of any sort of torture or threats had been the most unnerving to John. It had allowed his imagination to run wild, and in matters of violence, John had a very vivid and creative imagination. It had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life, even if he wouldn't admit it to anyone else, especially not Sherlock.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not actually going to abduct you. At least, not for a bit. I figure it's the least I could do, all things considered."

"Thanks...I guess."

"Speaking of thanks," Jim's expression turned business-like, "what do you want?"

"Excuse me?"

"What do you want? To, you know, pay you back for all this." Jim vaguely waved his hand at the hospital room to indicate his meaning.

"Oh," John frowned, but then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jim, but I'm not going to ask for your gratitude. If you're really thankful, you'll find your own way of showing it."

Jim did not look happy about this. In fact, he looked downright sulky. "I'm not going to be indebted to you."

"I never said you were."

"Good. Because I'm not. I never asked for your help."

"Right."

"What right do you have, anyway, running around willy-nilly being a good Samaritan and forcing people to be grateful to you?"

"None at all. It's bloody awful of me," John stated mildly.

"I'm glad that you agree," Jim responded. John couldn't decide if he was being sarcastic or intentionally obtuse, but either way it was rather funny to watch him struggle through whatever internal conflict he had inflicted upon himself.

"Well, if that's all you want to ask then, I guess I can write you up a clean bill of health. Well, mostly clean. You'll still have to be on a couple of medications, but Sebastian already has all the information about those. It's probably best for you to stay in bed for a couple of weeks, too. No running around the city terrorizing the innocents, okay?"

Pouting just a bit, Jim nodded. Of course John knew that Jim could probably create more havoc from his bed than the average man could make by stepping into a crowded train stain with a semi-automatic, but it couldn't hurt to hope that Jim's confinement would at least slow his activities a little.

A light knocking came from the door, then, and John stepped over to pull it open. Sebastian was standing there, his arms laden with multiple bags of food. Jim's appetite had been off lately, and as such Sebastian kept having to supply him with a wide range of foods in hopes that _something _would look appealing. The upshot of this was that he and John got whatever food Jim turned down, and hence John hadn't had to buy a meal for either himself or Sherlock since Jim had woken up. At first, Sherlock had grumbled about getting Jim's rejected foods, but his complaining had stopped once he realized that Jim was turning down meals ordered from five star restaurants. Sherlock may be stubborn, but he wasn't a fool.

"Okay, Jim, I've brought you all your favorites from every restaurant in a thirty kilometer radius of the hospital. Please tell me that some of it looks good?"

"Actually," Jim smiled sweetly up at Sebastian. "I was just thinking that a sandwich and cup of jelly from the cafeteria sounded nice."

Sebastian stared at him disbelievingly, his neck and cheeks flushing red as he struggled to keep his temper in check. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out before forcing a smile directed at Jim.

"Yeah, sure. That's not a problem. Let me just go grab that for you then." He squared his shoulders and made to walk out the door.

Jim called after him, "The red jelly, please, Seb!" He simply grinned as Sebastian slammed the door and stalked off down the hallway. He then began rummaging through the bags before finally settling on some pasta. He dove into the dish eagerly, spinning the noodles around his fork and smiling contendedly as he ate.

"That wasn't very nice." Admittedly, Jim's treatment of Sebastian wasn't very surprising to John, but it was a bit odd to watch such a diminutive man harassing someone that looked like they could snap his neck with one hand.

Jim simply waved his fork carelessly in the air while he finished chewing. He swallowed, then began talking. "No, it was perfectly charitable of me. I happen to know for a fact that Seb hates every restaurant that I like within a thirty kilometer range of the hospital, meaning that he would be unsatisfied with my leftovers. This way, he gets a sandwich and whatever dessert he chooses, while I get my pasta and a cup of jelly. I do like the red jelly an awful lot, you know."

"So you're manipulating him into eating what he likes?"

"Precisely." Jim smiled and plunged his fork into a potato. John simply shook his head, somewhat confused by the complicated dynamics of Jim and Sebastian's relationship. At times, it seemed as if they were as dedicated to one another as a couple that had been married for decades. At others, it seemed as if they were simply exploiting one another ruthlessly for their personal gain.

Sure enough, Sebastian returned to the room shortly thereafter, took one look at Jim happily devouring his pasta, and appeared for a moment as if he was going to chuck the sandwich at the man. Instead, he scowled, dropping it and the cup of jelly on Jim's tray, and settled himself into a chair. His eyes roved over the other bags of food in an attempt to find something to eat before he snatched the sandwich back and tore it open. Jim, meanwhile, had begun working on scooping the jelly out of the cup and sucking it off his spoon. John watched them dancing around one another as they ate; Jim would take a couple of bites from various desserts and then shove them aside. Sebastian would then finish them off or store them for later, all the while plucking the cherries off any of the sweets for Jim so he wouldn't have to eat around them. It was like watching some bizarre event where people performed synchronized eating routines.

"John, darling, are you going to stand there and stare, or do you plan on joining us?"

"Actually, I was just getting ready to head out. Sherlock texted a while back and said that he had a new case he had started on. I figure I could at least make an appearance at the crime scene."

"Send Sherlock my regards, then. Oh, and take this, I don't want it." Jim tossed a couple of bags at John before turning his attention dismissively back on his dinner.

"Right. Um, thanks." John began collecting the few items he had brought with himself, but he left one plastic sack sitting on the corner table. "By the way, Sebastian, I was thinking that today might be a good day to go for a walk. Lovely weather outside."

Sebastian looked up from the third piece of cheesecake Jim had shoved at him. His eyebrows furrowed in concern as he looked from Jim to John. "Are you sure? It seems a bit cold outside."

"Yep. It's fine. Just remember to bundle up a bit, yeah?" John nodded his head towards the sack in the corner of the room. Sebastian's eyes flickered over to it as he nodded his understanding.

"Alright, I'd best be off then. Have a good day, Jim. Try not to harass Sebastian too much."

Jim glanced from Sebastian to John with a hint of a questioning expression, but he shook it off and smiled pleasantly back at John. "I'll do that. And don't let our dear Sherlock get himself shot."

As John left the room, Sebastian began packing the rest of the food away. Once that mess was cleaned, he rose and opened the sack that John had left in the corner of the room. On top was a robe and pair of house shoes. Underneath that was a pair of scrubs and the pajamas that Jim had arrived in. Finally, tucked into the bottom of the sack was a small note book. Sebastian flipped it open and began reading. The first page was instructions on how to properly disconnect Jim's IV line, followed by directions on how and when to give him his medications. From there it was all instructions on what to do in case various problems arose. Finally, John had scrawled his phone number with a note saying to call anytime, particularly if Jim's headaches became too severe.

"Alright, Jim. I was thinking we would take a walk if you feel up to it." He turned back to Jim while carrying the clothes that John had left. Jim looked momentarily puzzled, but then he smiled and nodded.

"A walk sounds lovely." He turned and dangled his feet over the edge of the bed. John had allowed him to change into drawstring pants and a t-shirt a few days back, and so all he needed was to pull on the robe and the shoes that John had left. Sebastian, meanwhile, had to strip down and redress in the scrubs. Jim smirked as he pulled on the light blue suit; it was probably the most effeminate outfit he had ever seen the man wear.

Sebastian carefully folded his clothes and tucked them into the sack. He then stepped over to Jim's side and began working on shutting off the IV. He dug around in the nightstand and, as John had promised he would, found some alcohol swabs and bandages. He gently pulled the needle from beneath Jim's skin and quickly wiped away the drip of blood before placing a plaster over the pale hand. Jim watched the whole process intently, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as Sebastian's fingers stroked over the plaster to push it into place. His gaze shifted upwards to blink at Sebastian when he cradled Jim's hand just a moment too long between his own. Noticing Jim's stare, Sebastian cleared his throat and stepped away.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Definitely." Jim slid off the bed and nearly fell to the floor as he stumbled on weak legs. Sebastian caught him before he could fall too far, however, and carefully arranged his grip so that he was bearing much of Jim's weight by placing a hand under his elbow. Jim gave a little grunt of frustration, but he didn't try to shake off Sebastian's hand. Slowly, Sebastian led Jim out the door and into the hallway. He was beginning to wonder if maybe he should grab a wheelchair by the time they made it to the lift; Jim's footsteps were shufflingly slow, and he had to stop to close his eyes when the feeling of vertigo became too overwhelming. Jim seemed to have read Sebastian's thoughts however, and he gave a displeased hiss.

"If you so much as look at a wheelchair, I will puke on your trainers."

Considering that Jim's face had gone that particular kind of pale that seems to preceed any sort of vomiting spell, Sebastian decided that Jim's threat shouldn't be taken as idle. He looked him over carefully before cautiously venturing, "Do you think that maybe we should go back? I can call John and tell him you weren't ready..."

"No. I'm fine. I don't want to be here anymore. Besides, all he'll do for me is tell me to sleep and drink plenty of fluids. I can do that just as easily at home."

"Alright." Nevertheless, Sebastian shifted his grip so that he had one arm twined around Jim's waist and could therefore support even more of his weight. This also allowed Jim to lay his head over on Sebastian's shoulder while they waited for the lift to reach the ground floor. It took all of Sebastian's efforts not to shiver as Jim's breath puffed out and brushed across his neck. It wouldn't do to make Jim think that their position was making Sebastian uncomfortable. Finally, the ding of the elevator announced their arrival at their destination, and Jim and Sebastian disentangled themselves to make their way out the door. As John had predicted, the two didn't garner so much as a second glance from the rest of the staff. They were able to shuffle their way out onto the walkway without interruption, and for that, Sebastian was grateful. He had never been particularly good at smooth-talking, doing so had always been Jim's area of expertise, but he figured it would look rather suspicious if the patient were the one answering all the questions.

Finally, they were far enough away from the hospital that Sebastian was able to hail a cab. Jim was now leaning heavily onto Sebastian's arm, and his head was slumped against Sebastian's shoulder once again. His eyes were closed so that all Sebastian could see was two thick semi-circles of dark eyelashes spread over his cheekbones. Despite the slight frown tugging the corners of his lips downwards, Jim looked more at peace than he had while in the hospital. At least, some of the tension in his jaw had eased. Sebastian gently nudged him when the cab pulled up to the curb, urging him towards the door which he had pulled open for Jim. After Jim had clambered into the vehicle, Sebastian followed and gave the cabbie their address. As the vehicle began to ease into the traffic, Sebastian coaxed Jim into his arms once again. This time, Jim was only content to lean on his shoulder for a few moments before he began writhing uncomfortably. He gave a low whine as he tried nuzzling himself into a more comfortable position, but it didn't seem to do much good. Eventually, Sebastian sighed, gripped Jim by the shoulders, and pushed him down into his lap.

Jim laid tensely still for a few moments, but gradually relaxed until he was curled across the seat with his head pillowed on Sebastian's thighs. He gave a low hum before murmuring, "I'm going to fall asleep on you, darling."

"It's fine." Sebastian's hand fell to rest on Jim's shoulder, just to keep the rocking of the cab from sending him toppling onto the floor, he told himself.

True to his word, Jim's breathing quickly fell into soft, easy rhythms and he didn't so much as twitch a muscle when the cab pulled to a halt. Sebastian paid the driver then looked down at Jim's sleeping form. Carefully, he collected the man into his arms and slid out of the cab, carrying him into the flat and tucking him away in bed. He then went and changed into his own pajamas before returning to Jim's room and laying on the opposite side of the bed as him. He found that he couldn't sleep, however. He just laid and watched Jim's chest rising and falling through the rest of the evening and into the night.


	13. Chapter 13

Sebastian stepped into Jim's office, his feet falling silently on the carpet. He raised an eyebrow at the mess within; Jim had been working for days on his current operation, and as such there were sheets of paper taped over the white boards and multi-colored notes scribbled in the space around the papers. Jim was currently sitting in the middle of his ring of computers, pivoting in his seat and typing furiously on various keyboards while pausing to scribble more notes in a pad.

"Jim." Sebastian knew that it would take a much more forceful announcement of his presence to gain Jim's attention, but he felt common courtesy dictated that he started out gently before taking more drastic approaches. He walked right up to Jim's desk, then, laying his hand flat on the top of it and leaning forward until he was inches from Jim's face. He snapped his fingers sharply, causing Jim to jump as Sebastian called out his name once again. "You said you wanted a status report?"

"Yes, of course." Jim tried to pivot his chair around to begin typing on another computer, but Sebastian smacked his hand down on the back of the chair and prevented it from rotating away from him. "Seb," Jim gave him a reprimanding look. "I'm working."

"Yes, and I was getting ready to talk to you. You're supposed to look at people when they're speaking to you."

Jim rolled his eyes, but then made a show of turning squarely in his chair to face Sebastian and tucking his hands in his laps as if he were a school boy waiting for the lecture to begin. Sebastian fought down the urge to smile fondly at Jim's antics before he began reciting his report.

"They package was delivered to the Yard successfully, as per your orders. Unable to identify the remains, DI Lestrade called in Sherlock for him to have a second look. Sherlock correctly ID-ed the bones of Thomas Jay from evidence of prior reconstructive surgery on the left femur. The other three were then identified based upon their association to Jay."

A small smirk pulled at Jim's lips. He hadn't shown up at all for Sebastian's dealings with his attackers until the very last day. Oh, and it had lasted _days. _Jim had to admit that he was impressed by Seb's ingenuity. He had hardly made any suggestions at all concerning their "treatment," preferring instead to tuck himself away in his office to plan for after they were dealt with, but Seb's creativity had surprised even Jim and sent a little shiver of pride up his spine as he looked over Seb's handiwork. It was almost artistically done, really. He was forced to look at Sebastian's hands in a whole new light after seeing what he had done to the four men, and even now he found himself staring at those gifted hands and wondering just what else they were capable of doing.

"Go on," he instructed.

"Sherlock immediately deduced the identity of the murderer," he met Jim's eyes and smiled ever so slightly. "But did not report it to Lestrade because of John's involvement. They received the anonymous call about the "body" shortly thereafter. They arrived on the scene, found the clue you left, and are currently on the trail."

"Good. Very good." Jim leaned back in his chair and smiled up at the ceiling. John had said that he would need to find his own way to thank him; Jim rather thought that his methods were quite clever. On the one hand, he got rid of four little problems, and he also got to send Sherlock on a very amusing case. Oh, this one would keep Sherlock occupied for days, probably a little over a week, if Sherlock did everything as he predicted. Which he would, of course. Jim knew Sherlock's mind probably better than he knew his own. Yes, Sherlock would be _very _entertained by this game, and John would be glad to have something to stave off the boredom.

"What do you want me to do now?"

Jim waved a hand uncaringly. "Just have the surveillance keep up. Make sure that all the clues are planted in the proper location. Oh, and if they stop to eat, have one of our men take care of the bill and the like."

"Right," Sebastian frowned, looking Jim over to make sure he was still well. He had tried to force Jim to stay in bed as per John's orders, but he had been up and preparing to organize this whole event just three days after they returned home from the hospital. Sebastian, of course, had kept an eye on him and practically carried him back to bed on multiple occasions. Jim, as was expected, put up a fight every time, but he almost always collapsed in a heap on his bed to sleep for the rest of the day in the end. It became a sort of strange routine for them, really.

Sebastian had gladly taken reign over dealing with the thugs that had attacked Jim. Once Jim had finally disclosed their identities (he had refused to do so earlier, afraid that Sebastian would rush off and ruin his plan, and rightly so), Sebastian had carefully tracked them down and made life a living hell for them for days before he had actually abducted them. Honestly, part of the thrill was watching them panic as they realized that they were being targeted. He had carefully planned every act of violence he would commit against them to ensure the longest possible amount of suffering. In the end, he couldn't help but indulge his poetic side, and he didn't kill them until the one month anniversary of their assault of Jim. He was sure that Jim and his propensity for dramatics approved.

After that, Jim took control of the arrangements. Well, he took control in that he ordered other people to do the nasty work of cleaning the bodies such that there was nothing but bones left. Sebastian was rather glad of this; he would more than happily kill for Jim, but digging around in corpses wasn't his cup of tea. He had then sat back and watched in amusement as Jim began toppling the ring of dominoes he had built for Sherlock's pleasure. It was just a bit of housecleaning, really. Some minor competition had sprung up while Jim's operation had been running on neutral, and they had to be taken out of the picture, of course. By the end of this little game of Jim's, a money laundering operation, a political blackmailer, some racketeers, and a drug trafficking ring would all be broken up. The important thing, however, was that it entertain Sherlock while also avoiding murder, at least, murder beyond the initial four victims. Dr. Watson did so seem to hate it when Jim killed people.

Setting it up without killing had been tricky. Lestrade didn't often call in Sherlock unless bodies were involved, so Jim had arranged for one of the members of the drug trafficking ring to be poisoned with a heavy paralytic. To the casual observer, they would appear dead, but a medical examiner would notice that they were still breathing at least a little bit. Probably. Sebastian didn't think that Jim would really mind if there was a little slip up and the trafficker ended up dead on accident. Anyway, the "body" had been placed in a location where it was guaranteed to be found within minutes, Sherlock had subsequently been called to the scene, and all the pieces of Jim's puzzle fell so prettily into place.

"What are you doing now?" Sebastian tried to make sense of Jim's nearest computer screen, but he knew it was a pointless endeavor. Half the time he thought that Jim typed in a language he had made himself. He wouldn't put it past the genius to have a whole language all his own. "You promised you would rest after John's gift was set up."

"This is rest. I'm writing up a program for a new video game."

"No, that's not rest. Rest involves eating a decent meal and laying down on a bed."

Jim stared up at Sebastian with his eyebrows raised. "It's two in the afternoon."

"Doesn't matter." Sebastian straightened himself up to his full height in preparation of a struggle. "John said that you'll need at least twelve hours of sleep every day, and at my last count you've only had eight in the past three days. Now," he put on a disarmingly pleasant smile, "are you going to come quietly, or will I have to force you?"

Jim cocked his head to the side for a moment, as if seriously considering what he wanted to do. Slowly, a slight smirk grew across his lips. "Mm," he hummed. "I think you're going to have to force me, darling. I can't say that I'm much in the mood for bed at the moment."

Sebastian rolled his eyes but stepped around the desk nevertheless to haul Jim up from his chair. He was surprised, however, when, instead of writhing and acting like a human model of a Gumbi doll as he usually did in these situations, Jim simply fell boneless in Sebastian's arms, his dead weight nearly making Sebastian drop him onto the ground.

"Jesus, Jim!" Sebastian exclaimed. "Do you have to act like such child?"

"Absolutely," Jim smirked up at him. "It's a lot more fun this way. If you insist on being boring by making me go to bed, I'll just have to make it more entertaining."

"Yeah, well if I drop you, it's not going to be my fault." He grunted as he dragged Jim up and began hauling him towards the bedroom. He held Jim around his waist, forced to walk backwards slowly and awkwardly as he carefully made sure that Jim wasn't put in any actual risk of falling. Jim merely stared up at him, his chin propped on Sebastian's chest while he grinned up at him. Other than wrapping his arms loosely around Sebastian's neck, he made no motions to make the process any easier.

"You know, Jim, there are probably a multitude of more dignified ways of getting to bed."

"Yes," Jim's smile hitched a little wider, "but none of them involve seeing you all flushed and frustrated. And I do so love seeing you flushed and frustrated." As if to prove his point, he adjusted his hands behind Sebastian's neck, causing a little spark of heat to ripple down Sebastian's spine. He wasn't sure if Jim intentionally caressed his fingers so slowly over the sensitive nerves at the base of his neck, but it sure as hell felt like it.

"One day," Sebastian stated with far more self-restraint and control than he was feeling. "I'm not going to be here, and you're going to start pushing my replacement around, and then they're going to snap and break your little neck. I think it would be best if you'd start working on breaking these habits of yours before they become a problem."

"Oh, but that would never happen."

"What?"

"You dying before me. Or me even bothering to replace you if you did."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Jim rolled his eyes as if he was being forced to explain why there were four seasons, "That if anything ever happened to you, I would follow you shortly thereafter."

"Okay," Sebastian frowned. "You do realize that we're both going to hell, right?"

Jim beamed up at him, actually looking strangely excited at the thought of an afterlife. "And I'll love you still in hell."

Sebastian really did drop Jim that time around. Fortunately, Jim seemed not to mind too much and managed to catch himself so that he simply plopped down on the ground with a light "oof." Sebastian stared down at the man sprawled at his feet, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form a logical, coherent reaction to Jim's casual proclamation of love.

"Jim...that's...I..."

"It's okay if you don't-"

"No, Jim, I do. I just wasn't expecting...Well, I didn't think..."

"Are you really that dense?" Jim's eyebrows arched upwards, and his expression said that he was very concerned for the functionality of Sebastian's brain. "I thought I couldn't make it any more obvious."

"Obvious?" Sebastian sat down on the floor across from Jim, raking his fingers through his hair as he tried to calm himself. He really didn't want to look like a love-sick school girl at a time like this. "Jim, you flirt with anything and everything that's living. For a while, I thought you were trying to get off with Sherlock because of how you acted with him. And with me...Well, I don't know, it wasn't that clear, I guess."

"Hm," Jim cocked his head to the side and chewed his lip a bit, thinking what Sebastian had said over. "So I'm a flirt?"

"Well, yeah. When you're not being a condescending tosser."

"Oh." Jim shifted restlessly, pulling his knees up under his chin as he felt a sickening twisting in his gut. He was suddenly and unpleasantly reminded of what Anthony had said to him in the showers. Jim couldn't help but wince as the repulsive memories dragged themselves to the surface of his mind.

"Jim, what's wrong?" Sebastian scooted closer to Jim until their feet were touching, but he was startled when Jim quickly recoiled.

"Nothing. I'm fine." Jim felt ill in so many hideous ways, and he he felt it unusually cruel for this moment to be ruined by the black shadows stirring in the recesses of his memory.

_"What's wrong with you? You've been asking for it for months now. I'm just giving you what you want."_

The nausea hit with such force that it felt like a punch to the gut. Jim quickly staggered to his feet and made his way to the bathroom, dropping to his knees just in time to spew the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He was vaguely aware of Sebastian standing in the background, stroking his back, and wondering off to collect some juice, but Jim was too busy working himself up into the throes of a panic attack to take much notice. Once he was done convulsively emptying his stomach, Jim curled against the wall, little shivers causing his spine to vibrate against the plaster.

"Jim?" Sebastian crouched down and stared at him, concern causing him to look worn and older than he was. "I brought you some juice. Do you want it?" Considering the chocolate milk incident, he figured that it was best to ask just in case he unintentionally triggered some more unsavory memories.

Jim nodded, but he otherwise didn't make any motions to retrieve the glass. Sebastian understood, however, and simply remained crouched near him, ready should he ask for anything else. Slowly, Jim seemed to return to himself as the shaking subsided and he opened his eyes to stare listlessly at the floor. Finally he reached out and took the glass, swishing the juice in his mouth to get rid of the foul taste of bile.

"What happened, Jim? You don't think it's a problem with your head, do you?" He leaned around so he could peer more closely into Jim's eyes, checking for uneven dilation, but they appeared okay. Still, Jim did not look well. He was far too pale, and his fingers were trembling as they picked at his slacks.

"It was my fault," he murmured, the words alone causing fresh tremors to run their way down his sides. "I was flirting with him, and I was asking for it, and I didn't mean to, but I-" His voice caught as his breath hitched, and Sebastian realized that the breakdown which he had been half expecting since they arrived back home from the hospital was imminent.

"Why don't we go to your room, Jim, okay? Is it alright if I help you?" Having been granted permission by Jim's weak nod, Sebastian quickly collected him into his arms and carried him down the hallway and into the room. He sat Jim down on the bed before going off to get an additional collection of drinks and the bottle of pain medication that John had given them. By the time he returned, Jim had already kicked off his shoes and curled up on the bed, his face half burrowed into a pillow as tears pooled in his eyes. Sebastian dutifully sat next to him, waiting for Jim to give a sign as to whether he wanted to be left alone or consoled. He didn't have to wait long for his sign, as Jim had migrated such that his head was in Sebastian's lap within minutes.

They sat together like that for well over an hour. Just when Sebastian thought that Jim was beginning to calm himself down, he would shudder and the whole process would start anew. Luckily, he wasn't ill any more, but he was still unnaturally pale and shaking. Sebastian did his best to help, mimicking the way John had comforted Jim during the chocolate milk incident at the hospital. He would place a hand on Jim's back or shoulder, or card fingers through his hair all the while murmuring mindless little words of comfort. He wasn't sure why he kept telling Jim that everything was going to be alright, because it obviously wasn't, but it felt like the sort of thing John would have said.

Finally, Jim took one last long, shuddering breath and he simply fell silent, now laying still as a statue across Sebastian's lap. Sebastian waited a few minutes before pulling Jim up so that he was sitting with his back against the head board and leaning against Sebastian's side while Sebastian fished some painkillers out of the bottle and handed him a glass. Jim obediently took the pills, then dropped his head onto Sebastian's shoulder. Slowly, quietly, then, he began talking.

Sebastian was surprised when Jim began talking about his childhood. In all their years together, Jim almost never spoke of his life before he went off to university other than a couple of passing comments here and there. Half the time Sebastian just assumed that he was lying and just making the comment in order to be able to participate more actively in the conversation being had. He did that a lot. But this was different. Between the drained expression in Jim's eyes and the way his voice was uncharacteristically wavering between a dead monotone and agitated bursts of description, Sebastian could tell that Jim was actually speaking honestly of his youth.

Which was why, when he finally came to the conclusion of his story about Anthony White, Sebastian was livid and trying his best to repress the raw anger that threatened to send him out the door with his rifle, consequences be damned. It was obvious that Jim shouldn't be left alone, however, so Sebastian forced himself to remain curled up on the bed with him.

"What made you think of all that now, Jim?" In all honesty, he was asking more for his personal interests than in concern for Jim. If somehow the idea of being intimate with himself dredged up all these nasty memories, then Sebastian would rather find out now than later.

Jim winced, but answered nevertheless, "When you said that I was a flirt, it made me realize that what Anthony had said during it was true. I _had _been asking for it, even if I didn't know it, so it was my fault, because I had been flirting with him for all that time. I didn't mean to...I didn't know-"

"Jim," Sebastian tilted Jim's chin up to force him to look himself in the eye. "It was _not _your fault. He is the one to blame, not you. Do you understand?"

"But-"

"Did you say no to him?"

"Yes, but-"

"There's no "but" about it, Jim. If you said no, then he should have listened. No matter what happened leading up to that, if someone says no then they mean it, and if anything bad happens then it's not their fault."

"Okay," Jim said weakly. Sebastian could tell that he still didn't fully believe it, but it would sink in if given time. He felt a bit guilty for having called Jim a flirt in the first place now; at the time, he hadn't thought anything of it. It was true, after all. Jim seemed incapable of going a single day without shamelessly making overtures with someone new. Now, though, Sebastian realized that it was just one of the many quirks of his personality, not actual sexual interest. He supposed that Anthony had probably been living under the same misapprehension as himself, but that still didn't excuse him from what he had done.

"Do you want some popcorn now?" He smiled, nuzzling his chin into Jim's hair. He assumed that he was allowed to do so, considering that Jim had declared his love for him not terribly long ago. His stomach still did little flip flops when he thought about it, despite all that had happened since.

"Maybe later," Jim wriggled so that he was pressed even closer to Sebastian. "I don't want you to get up." Jim sighed, letting his eyes fall closed as he listened to the steady, comforting beating of Sebastian's heart. He imagined that this is what babies felt like when they were still enclosed in their mother's womb, when the horrors of the outside world were not present and all they knew was the feeling of being sheltered, of being utterly protected.

"Since you love me," Jim said, then hesitated. He knew what he wanted, but he wasn't sure how to go about asking for it. "Would you be my first?"

Sebastian looked down at Jim, slightly confused by what he was asking. Of course, one thought certainly popped into his mind, but he discarded it quickly, thinking that it surly wasn't what Jim had meant. Whenever he could find no further explanation, however, he frowned ever so slightly.

"Jim, you've already-"

"No, I haven't. I didn't want it; they took it against my will. And I still haven't...you know, so it doesn't count. None of them count, and I want you to be my first."

"Then yes, of course, yes." He buried a kiss in Jim's hair and was gratified to feel the tension that had taken hold of him during the last bit of their conversation bleed away. They reverted back to silence, Sebastian allowing Jim privacy among his thoughts while he reflected on what this change in their relationship would mean to their work dynamic. He didn't suppose that it wouldn't cause much difficulty, considering that they had practically been a couple beforehand, just a couple lacking in a physical relationship.

Gradually, he became aware of the fact that Jim had fallen asleep. He smiled fondly down at the man, carefully rolling him into a more comfortable position so he could pull the covers up around Jim's shoulders. Once Jim was tucked into bed, Sebastian changed into his own nightclothes and slid in next to him. As he reached over to turn the lamp off, he paused, looking over Jim's sleeping form. Even when asleep, he didn't look completely at peace. Sebastian could tell from the slight crinkling around his eyes that something troublesome was happening in the landscape of Jim's subconscious, but he hoped that it had less to do with the events of that day and more to do with a function not behaving as it should in the strange reality of dreams. His mouth, however, was what Sebastian found truly captivating. His lips had parted just a fraction in his sleep, and his lower lip was caught in a half-pout. For a moment, Sebastian considered leaning down to steal a kiss, but he stopped himself before actually doing so. He decided then that, no matter what, he would not take from Jim unless it was expressly given. Be it a kiss or something more, Jim would always have control over what he allowed Sebastian to have.

Instead, Sebastian slowly shifted their positions once again so that they were laying on their sides, Jim's back pressed firmly against Sebastian's chest. Sebastian threaded his arm around Jim's waist and carefully entwined his fingers in Jim's. He smiled when he felt them flex ever slightly in his grip. He closed his eyes then, finally content to go to sleep himself with Jim in his arms and a promise of him still being there tomorrow.

-oOo-

Author: Sorry to have made you wait so long for the ending. Honestly, I have no excuse for the fact other than that I myself did not want it to end. I ended up with about 4 variant endings planned out, but I eventually chose to go with the most angsty one because, who am I kidding? I'm a sucker for angst. I will probably be posting little drabble fics which feed into this universe, though, so I hope you look out for those.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, alerted or favorited this story. You all are wonderful people, and you make writing for this fandom a joy.

Final thanks to Kelsie, without whom this chapter might never have been posted.

And yes, Jim's version of thanking John is to give him 4 skeletons, send Sherlock on a week-long chase, and pay for their meals along the way. In my head canon, John will also receive a jam bouquet every month indefinitely.


End file.
